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"SANG  IT  AS  IF  IT  WE  UK  A  MERUY  UOUXDELAY 


Tales  of  Destiny 


by 

Elizabeth    G.   Jordan 

Author  of  "  Tales  of  the  Cloister " 

"  Tales  of  the  City  Room  " 

etc.,  etc. 


New    York    and    London 

Harper    &    Brothers 

Publishers      1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

AU  rights  reserved. 
Published  June,  1902. 


TO 

MY   SISTER   ALICE 


2136400 


Contents 


PAGE 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  PAIN   ...  3 

AN  EPISODE  AT  MRS.  KIRKPATRICK'S     .    .  35 

THE  WIFE  OF  A  HERO 59 

VICTORIA  DELSARO,  MISSING 87 

THE  ONE  WHO  INTERVENED 119 

HER  FRIEND 147 

Miss  UNDERBILL'S  LESSON 181 

THE  STORY  OF  A  FAILURE 213 

IN  THE  CASE  OF  DORA  RISSER    ...         .241 

A  COLLABORATION ...  267 


Illustrations 

'SANG  IT  AS  IF  IT  WERE  A  MERRY 

ROUNDELAY  " Frontispiece 

'YOU'VE  KILLED  THAT  GIRL  AMONG 
YOU  !  YOU  KNOW  IT,  AND  I  KNOW 
IT  '  " Facing  p.  52 

SHE  DROPPED  HER  LASHES  AND 
STUDIED  THE  NEW  NEIGHBOR  BE 
HIND  THE  SCREEN  THEY  AF 
FORDED  " „  150 

EACH  BENT  HIS  HEAD,  WHILE  TEARS 

STREAMED  DOWN  HIS  CHEEKS"  .  „  176 

'  NOW,  MRS.  RISSER,'  SHE  SAID,  '  I 

WANT  YOU  TO  ENJOY  THIS  RIDE  '  '  „  246 

THE  CARRIAGE  TURNED  A  CORNER 
SHARPLY  AND  ENTERED  ANOTHER 
STREET"  .  262 


The  Voice  in 
the  World  of  Pain 


The  Voice  in 
the   World   of  Pain 


7HEY  had  told  her  that  only 
an  operation  could  save  her 
life,  and  that  it  must  be  per 
formed  at  once. 

The  voice  of  the  physician 
who  first  spoke  seemed  a  trifle  strained 
and  unnatural  as  he  delivered  this  deci 
sion.  He  hesitated  perceptibly  over  his 
words,  and  his  eyes  moved  restlessly  as 
she  fastened  hers  upon  them.  Even  in  the 
sudden  mental  panic  that  had  seized  her, 
and  which  she  was  controlling  so  well,  she 
realized  his  discomfort  and  felt  a  vague 
gratitude  for  the  sympathy  that  caused  it. 
It  could  not  be  easy,  she  reflected,  to 
tell  a  young  woman  for  whom  life  held 
3 


Tales  of  Destiny 

as  much  as  it  did  for  her  that  a  mortal 
disease  had  fastened  on  her.  She  who  had 
always  analyzed  herself  and  others  dis 
covered  that  even  at  this  crisis  she  was 
dreamily  trying  to  follow  the  mental  proc 
ess  of  the  famous  surgeon  who  had  begun 
to  roam  restlessly  about  the  room. 

"He  will  say  nothing  for  a  moment," 
she  thought.  "He  is  giving  me  time  to 
pull  myself  together.  I  can,  but  I  do  need 
the  time.  He  needs  it,  too.  He  has  had 
to  tell  a  woman  who  is  young  and  rich, 
one  who  is  ambitious  and  in  love,  some 
thing  that  may  mean  the  loss  of  all  these 
things.  He  has  made  her  feel  as  if  the 
world  were  slipping  under  her  feet.  The 
only  thing  that  may  save  her — the  knife. 
My  work  must  stop,  my  friends  must 
stand  by  helplessly.  Even  Jack  can  do 
nothing  for  me  —  dear  Jack  who  would 
do  anything — " 

The  objects  in  the  room  grew  suddenly 
dim.  She  sank  deeper  into  the  big  chair 
that  held  her,  while  despair,  sudden  and 
unreasoning,  filled  her  soul.  The  ques 
tion  which  has  so  often  come  to  men  and 
4 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

women  in  agony  through  all  time  rose 
in  her.  Why,  oh,  why,  had  existence 
begun  at  all,  if  it  must  end  like  this?  To 
her  the  grim  implacability  of  fate  was 
as  awful  a  revelation  as  if  she  were  the 
only  one  to  whom  it  had  ever  come.  To 
be  projected  into  the  world  through  no 
volition  of  one's  own,  to  be  danced  about 
like  a  puppet  on  a  string,  to  have  the  body 
to  which  one  is  tied  seized  by  disease,  and 
to  be  forced  to  watch  one's  own  decay, 
helpless  to  arrest  or  avert  it — that  was  a 
horror  before  which  the  soul  itself  must 
shrink. 

Her  strong  soul  was  appalled  by  the 
prospect.  Many  had  leaned  on  it  in  the 
course  of  her  young  life,  whose  brightness 
had  not  made  her  heedless  of  the  gloom 
in  which  some  have  to  walk.  Her  strength 
had  never  failed  them,  but  in  this  tragedy 
it  was  failing  herself  and  she  found  no 
helper.  She  had  made  her  appointment 
with  the  specialists  and  had  come  to  them 
without  a  word  even  to  those  who  were 
nearest  to  her.  "Why  should  I  go  to 
them  with  my  trouble?"  she  had  asked 
5 


Tales   of  Destiny 

herself.  "  It  may  not  be  what  I  fear,  and 
I  should  alarm  them  unnecessarily.  If  it 
is — well,  there  will  be  time  enough  to  tell 
them  when  I  know  myself/' 

She  thought  of  them  now — at  least  she 
thought  of  Jack.  Was  it  only  last  June 
they  had  been  married?  It  seemed  as  if 
they  had  always  been  together,  as  if  they 
had  always  belonged  to  each  other — as  if 
life  had  only  really  begun  when  she  met 
him.  He  came  vividly  before  her,  gay, 
debonair,  his  brown  eyes  full  of  the  ten 
derness  she  knew  so  well.  She  pictured  the 
change  that  would  come  in  them  when  she 
told  him.  The  thought  wrung  from  her 
what  her  own  suffering  had  not  done. 
She  groaned,  and  the  three  physicians  at 
once  assumed  an  air  of  professional  in 
terest. 

In  the  interval  of  silence  they  had  worn 
their  usual  calm.  They  were  suave,  pol 
ished,  hopeful.  In  this  atmosphere  of  cool, 
scientific  interest  the  woman's  will  asserted 
itself,  and  she  set  her  teeth  with  the  deter 
mination  to  meet  these  men  with  a  calm 
ness  equal  to  their  own.  She  asked  that 
6 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

the  operation  might  be  performed  three 
days  later,  and  found  them  thoroughly  in 
accord  with  her  wish  to  have  the  matter 
hastened.  Every  detail  was  arranged ;  the 
strain  was  lightened  to  the  extent  of  a 
mild  professional  jest  or  two  dropped  with 
the  friendly  wish  to  convince  her  that  the 
situation  was  not  hopelessly  tragic.  Then 
she  went  to  her  carriage  while  three  pairs 
of  eyes  looked  after  her  and  then  at  one 
another  with  an  expression  it  was  well 
she  did  not  see.  She  directed  the  coach 
man  to  drive  home,  and,  drawing  her  furs 
around  her,  gave  herself  again  to  reflection. 
Unconsciously  she  drooped  forward  a  little 
in  her  seat,  staring  at  the  falling  snow 
outside  with  eyes  which  hardly  saw  the 
streets  and  scenes  through  which  she 
passed.  At  one  point  in  the  journey  up 
town  the  carriage  was  stopped  for  a  mo 
ment  by  a  sudden  congestion  of  traffic; 
but  she  was  not  conscious  of  it.  Her 
beautiful  face,  outlined  against  the  dark 
collar  of  her  fur  coat  and  framed  by  the 
carriage  window,  drew  the  eyes  of  another 
woman  who  stood  at  the  curb  waiting  for 
7 


Tales    of  Destiny 

an  opening  in  the  line  of  vehicles.  She, 
too,  was  miserable — but  something  in  the 
expression  of  the  eyes  looking  over  her 
head  made  her  forget  her  own  burden  in  a 
sudden  thrill  of  unselfish  sympathy. 

"Handsome  and  rich/'  she  mused,  as 
the  line  parted  and  she  made  her  way 
across  the  street.  "She  seems  to  have 
everything;  but  her  face — with  that  look 
of  despair  on  it!  She  is  wretched — more 
so  than  I  am." 

Nevertheless,  she  might  have  failed  to 
recognize  the  face  had  she  seen  it  three 
hours  later  when  Mrs.  Jack  Imboden  turned 
it  towards  the  young  Englishman  whom 
her  hostess  of  the  evening  had  assigned 
to  take  her  into  dinner.  She  herself  knew 
that  she  never  had  looked  better,  and  Jack 
had  confirmed  this  conviction  when  he 
folded  her  wrap  about  her  as  they  were 
leaving  home.  She  had  told  him  nothing 
of  the  afternoon's  experience;  she  could 
not,  she  discovered.  There  were  limita 
tions  even  to  her  courage.  She  could  dress, 
she  could  meet  a  dinner  engagement,  she 
could  look  her  best  and  be  her  brightest 
8 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

— that  much  she  could  and  would  force 
herself  to  do.  But  tell  Jack — no,  not  yet. 
The  next  morning,  perhaps.  If  only  he 
would  have  some  business  call  to  the  West, 
as  he  had  once  had  during  the  summer, 
and  be  detained  until  all  was  over — there 
was  the  germ  of  an  idea  in  that.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  she  could  arrange  it  so  he  need 
not  know. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  reverie  by  the 
soft  laughter  of  the  young  Englishman 
at  her  side.  'This  is  delicious/'  he  said, 
appreciatively,  and  she  became  conscious 
that  she  had  been  talking  brightly,  as 
usual,  and  that  what  she  had  just  said 
was  rather  clever.  Jack  had  caught  it, 
too,  and  was  looking  at  her  with  the  ex 
pression  she  most  loved  to  see  in  his  eyes — 
a  look  of  proud  and  tender  proprietorship. 
Her  own  expression  changed  so  suddenly 
that  both  men  noticed  it,  and  Effingham, 
the  Englishman,  commented  upon  it  the 
next  morning  as  he  was  giving  an  account 
of  the  dinner  to  his  cousin. 

"Mrs.  Jack  Imboden,  who  wrote  that 
clever  society  novel  last  year,  was  in  her 
9 


Tales   of  Destiny 

best  form/'  he  said.  "She  got  off  some 
clever  things,  and  told  a  good  story  that 
I'd  tell  you,  old  man,  if  I  could  remember 
how  it  went.  But  for  all  that,  I  don't 
believe  she  is  happy.  I  can't  explain  it; 
but  every  now  and  then  there  was  some 
thing — and  once  she  looked  at  Imboden 
in  the  strangest  way.  She  is  too  much 
of  a  thoroughbred  to  do  that,  you  know, 
without  good  reason,  and  I  rather  fancied 
that  something  was  up.  Do  you  suppose 
they  have  quarrelled,  or  that  he  is  not 
treating  her  right?" 

His  cousin,  the  Honorable  Cuthbert  Ef- 
fingham,  yawned  widely.  He  had  not  met 
Mrs.  Imboden,  and  the  subject  did  not 
especially  interest  him. 

"Since  you've  got  religion,  Albert,"  he 
drawled,  "  I've  noticed  in  you  a  melancholy 
conviction  that  every  soul  but  your  own  is 
unsaved  and  unsatisfied.  Mrs.  Imboden' s 
all  right.  Perhaps  her  new  gown  didn't 
fit,  or  something.  You're  getting  morbid. 
You  won't  even  admit  that  I'm  happy. 
Come  with  me  and  I'll  give  you  my  imitation 
of  boyish  glee  over  a  game  of  billiards." 
10 


The  Voice  in   the  World  of  Pain 

"The  germ  of  an  idea"  evolved  during 
the  dinner  that  evening,  developed  well. 
By  taking  Jack's  partner  into  her  con 
fidence,  a  rapid  exchange  of  telegrams 
between  the  East  and  West  made  Mrs. 
Imboden's  plan  succeed  so  well  that  she 
drove  with  her  husband  to  the  station  the 
day  before  the  operation,  and  saw  him 
whirled  away  in  a  westward-bound  train. 
He  had  rebelled  loudly  over  going;  the 
subtle  instinct  that  is  the  twin  of  perfect 
love  had  told  him  something  was  wrong. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  almost  faltered, 
almost  confessed — it  would  have  been  so 
great  a  comfort  to  have  him  to  lean  upon. 
But  she  had  sent  him  away,  playing  her 
part  perfectly  until  the  end.  If,  when  the 
train  rolled  out  of  the  station,  she  dropped 
the  mask  for  a  moment,  there  was  no  one 
who  knew  her  to  see  it  fall. 

There  was  much  to  be  done  that  last 
night — she  thought  of  it,  somehow,  as  the 
last  night,  absolutely.  Her  mental  process 
refused  to  go  beyond  the  events  of  the 
next  day,  and  though  she  did  not  allow 
her  thoughts  to  take  on  more  than  a  Iwpo- 
n 


Tales   of  Destiny 

theticai  foreboding  of  death,  she  made  her 
will,  gave  definite  instructions  to  the  friends 
who  were  now  aware  of  what  was  to  take 
place,  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Jack  which 
was  to  be  mailed  to  him,  "unless,"  as 
she  put  it  to  her  maid,  "within  three  days 
I  myself  give  you  instructions  to  the  con- 
trary." 

The  great  surgeon  came  in  the  evening. 
He  was  deeply  interested  in  the  woman 
as  well  as  in  the  case.  He  persuaded  her 
to  take  a  sleeping-draught,  mixing  it  him 
self  with  a  solicitude  which  would  have  sur 
prised  his  colleagues  had  they  seen  it. 

"You  must  sleep  well  to-night,  you 
know,"  he  said  to  her,  "and  you  would 
not  do  it  without  this.  You'd  say  you 
would,  and  you  would  try,  but  you  would 
lie  awake  all  night  and  think  —  which 
would  be  bad  for  you." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  the  great  sur 
geon.  He  himself  was  a  little  surprised, 
and  was  so  still  more  when  late  that  night 
he  found  himself  giving  his  wife  the  history 
of  the  case.  It  was  his  rule  not  to  carry 
professional  matters  into  his  home,  and  he 
12 


The  Voice  in. the  World  of  Pain 

was  sorry  he  had  broken  it  when  he  saw 
the  tears  his  remarks  called  forth. 

"You'll  save  her,  won't  you?"  his  wife 
whispered,  clinging  to  him,  and  his  answer 
was  brief  but  full  of  feeling. 

"She  shall  have  the  best  I  can  give," 
he  said,  quietly ;  and  the  aroused  womanly 
sympathy  was  content. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  to  be  brave,"  he  said, 
looking  down  encouragingly  at  Mrs.  Im- 
boden  the  next  day,  a  moment  before  the 
anaesthetic  was  administered.  "You  will 
be  that,  I  know.  But  you  must  be  hope 
ful.  We  are  going  to  bring  you  through 
all  right." 

She  smiled  back  at  him  faintly.  "I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you,"  she  said. 
"I  will  give  you  no  trouble." 

The  saturated  cone  settled  over  her  face, 
and  the  sweet  fumes  of  the  anaesthetic 
filled  her  nostrils  and  crept  into  her  lungs. 

"Take  a  deep  breath,"  she  heard  a  voice 
say.  "Take  a  deep  breath  and  count. 
Begin  with  one  and  count  as  long  as  you 
can." 

She  counted  steadily  to  eight,  drawing 
13 


Tales   of  Destiny 

in  the  fumes  with  each  breath,  and,  un 
consciously,  breathing  as  little  as  possible. 
At  nine  a  sudden  panic  came  upon  her. 
Her  strong  will  broke  and  a  sense  of  dark 
ness  and  horror  filled  her.  She  opened 
her  mouth  to  shriek,  and  a  great,  cold 
wave  seemed  to  lift  her  and  carry  her 
away.  She  heard  some  one  say,  "twelve/' 
"thirteen/'  "fourteen,"  and  her  heart 
was  filled  with  pity  for  a  wretched  woman, 
who,  far  off  in  another  world,  was  suffer 
ing.  The  words  seemed  to  be  forced  by  a 
tremendous  will  from  a  body  in  agony. 
"Seven-te-e-n,"  "eight-een,"  "n-i-ne-te-en," 
moaned  the  distant  voice.  Then  all  was 
blackness  and  oblivion. 

When  she  again  became  conscious  of 
her  own  identity  she  was  one  of  a  vast 
number  of  souls  floating  through  a  long, 
dark  valley  at  the  distant  end  of  which 
gleamed  a  ray  of  light.  She  seemed,  like 
the  others,  to  be  propelling  herself  towards 
this  light  with  the  dimly  defined  concep 
tion  that  it  marked  her  objective  point. 
But  the  journey  was  endless.  Centuries 
seemed  to  pass,  empires  to  rise  and  fall, 
14 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

worlds  to  appear  and  disappear  as  she 
travelled  on.  At  first  all  was  silence. 
Then  the  air  was  filled  with  a  low  moan, 
increasing  in  violence  as  she  drew  near 
the  end  of  the  valley,  until  it  swelled  to  a 
vast  diapason  of  human  agony.  Before 
the  horror  of  it  her  brain  reeled ;  she  grasped 
blindly  at  the  shadowy  forms  about  her, 
but  each  swept  on  unswervingly.  She 
felt  herself  falling,  and  as  she  sank  the 
conviction  settled  upon  her  that  this  was 
at  last  the  end.  She  did  not  know  why, 
but  she  realized  that  if  she  lost  her  place 
in  that  dim  procession  she  would  never  get 
back  into  the  brightness  of  the  world  she 
was  seeking. 

Suddenly  a  voice,  rich,  soft,  and  musical, 
spoke  beside  her.  It  was  a  deep,  strong 
barytone  —  a  human  voice.  It  rose  and 
fell  softly,  persistently.  She  did  not  hear 
the  words;  but  she  knew  at  once  that  it 
was  meant  for  her,  that  it  was  striving  to 
reach  her  and  to  help  her.  To  its  humanity 
and  sympathy  she  responded  as  a  fright 
ened  child  in  the  dark  responds  to  the 
touch  of  its  mother's  hand.  She  felt  strong, 
15 


Tales   of  Destiny 

well  poised,  resolute.  She  found  herself 
again  a  part  of  the  throng  around  her, 
hurrying  towards  the  light  which  grew 
brighter  as  they  approached  the  exit  from 
the  valley.  Through  it  all  the  voice  re 
mained  beside  her,  uplifting  and  sustain 
ing.  As  it  grew  stronger  the  whole  valley 
seemed  to  her  to  be  full  of  it,  but  the  other 
shadows  took  no  h'eed.  The  conviction 
strengthened  that  it  was  for  her  alone — 
that  she  alone  heard  it.  A  buoyant  hope 
and  strength  took  possession  of  her,  and 
the  appalling  sense  of  loneliness  departed. 
She  floated  calmly  onward,  out  of  the  dense 
gloom  into  a  gray  twilight,  then  at  last 
through  the  great  arch  at  the  end  of  the 
valley  and  into  a  broad,  green  field  over 
which  lay  the  blessed  light  of  day. 

As  her  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the 
brightness  around  her  she  saw  that  the 
light  came'  not  from  a  sun,  but  from  a 
brilliant  dome  arching  over  the  field  and 
from  which  radiated  myriads  of  golden 
wires  converging  to  a  vast  instrument  in 
the  centre.  These  wires  threw  out  blind 
ing  and  many-colored  lights.  At  the  in- 
16 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

strument  sat  a  woman  of  heroic  size  in 
flowing  white  robes  that  melted  into  the 
brilliance  around  her.  Her  great  face 
was  calm,  beautiful,  benign.  On  the  green 
sward  in  front  of  her  were  thousands  of 
men,  women,  and  little  children.  Each 
was  dressed  in  white,  each  face  was  dis 
torted,  and  from  each  open  mouth  came 
cries  of  agony.  From  time  to  time  the 
ranks  parted,  and  one  person  was  swept 
into  the  space  directly  before  the  instru 
ment.  The  mighty  hand  of  the  woman 
sitting  there  struck  a  key,  and  as  the  note 
sounded  one  of  the  wires  faded  and  the 
shrieking,  foremost  figure  sank  from  sight. 

Florence  Imboden  stood  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  throng  and  looked  at  those  near  her, 
forgetting  her  own  physical  suffering  in 
the  sight  of  theirs.  She  seemed  to  under 
stand  at  once  what  it  all  meant,  and  she 
accepted  without  question  the  explanation 
that  suggested  itself  as  one  accepts  the 
strange  experiences  that  come  in  dreams. 

"This  is  the  World  of  Pain/'  she  told 
herself,  "and  these  are  the  souls  of  men 
and  women  whose  tortured  bodies  are  ly- 
17 


Tales  of  Destiny 

ing  on  operating-tables  in  our  world  below. 
The  surgeons  tell  us  when  we  come  back 
that  we  have  not  suffered;  but  we  do,  we 
do!" 

The  young  girl  standing  next  to  her 
was  suddenly  swept  by  some  invisible 
force  to  the  open  space  before  the  instru 
ment.  The  woman  left  behind  knew  that 
her  time  was  coming  and  braced  herself 
to  meet  it.  But  fear,  hideous,  sickening, 
demoralizing,  again  claimed  her.  The 
head  of  the  woman  at  the  instrument  bent 
to  her,  and  she  felt  herself  propelled  for 
ward.  The  pandemonium  around  her  grew 
wilder.  She  realized  now  that  the  distant 
echo  of  it  was  what  she  had  heard  in  her 
journey  through  the  valley.  She  saw  the 
mighty  hand  before  her  move  towards  the 
key,  and  her  eyes  followed  it.  The  sur 
face  of  the  key  was  a  transparent  crystal. 
Looking  through,  she  saw  a  room,  bare, 
marble  lined,  with  a  table  in  the  centre 
around  which  were  grouped  half  a  dozen 
white-robed  figures.  Four  were  men  and 
two  were  women — nurses.  On  the  table 
lay  a  figure.  As  she  looked,  the  cone  in 
18 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

the  hand  of  one  was  lifted;  a  sudden  stir 
of  excitement  was  noticeable  in  the  tense 
circle.  Under  the  raised  cone  she  saw 
her  own  face,  white,  still,  terrible.  There 
wTas  a  quick  rush  to  and  fro,  the  body  was 
raised,  something  that  looked  like  a  gal 
vanic  battery  was  produced  and  used. 
The  great  surgeon  turned  from  the  table 
and  threw  up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of 
hopelessness. 

The  mighty  finger  of  the  instrument 
moved  implacably  towards  the  key,  shut 
ting  off  the  glimpse  into  the  world  below. 
She  felt  herself  sinking,  going,  when  again 
the  wonderful  voice  that  had  sustained  her 
sounded  in  her  ear — melodious,  golden, 
with  musical  inflections  never  heard  in 
any  other  world,  but  never  to  be  forgotten 
now.  This  time  she  could  hear  the  words : 

"  Give  her  strength  for  the  ordeal  before 
her,  and  if  it  is  Thy  will  restore  her  to  the 
life  in  which  she  has  done  so  much  good, 
to  the  husband  whom  she  has  so  greatly 
blessed.  We  ask  it  in  the  name — " 

She  raised  her  head  without  fear  and 
looked  into  the  calm  eyes  of  the  woman  at 
19 


Tales   of  Destiny 

the  instrument.  The  voice  went  on.  She 
heard  the  words  no  longer;  but  those  to 
which  she  had  listened  were  enough.  She 
would  live.  She  would  live  for  Jack, 
"the  husband  whom  she  had  so  greatly 
blessed/'  Some  benign,  some  powerful  in 
fluence  was  behind  her,  strengthening  and 
upholding  her.  She  would  live. 

"She  is  coming  round  at  last,"  said  a 
voice,  softly. 

"That  was  a  close  call,  doctor,"  said 
another.  "  I  never  saw  a  closer  one.  I  was 
certain  for  a  few  seconds  that  the  pulse — " 

She  opened  her  eyes.  The  white-walled 
room  was  whirling  round  her.  Faces, 
vaguely  familiar,  appeared  and  disap 
peared.  One,  mistlike  at  first,  gradually 
shaped  itself  into  the  features  of  the  great 
surgeon.  His  stern  eyes  smiled  at  her. 

"It's  all  over/'  he  remarked,  tersely. 
"Now  you  have  only  to  get  well." 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  dreamily,  "there  is 
a  soul — there  is  a  soul.  I  have  never  felt 
certain  of  it  before.  And  that  voice — that 
wonderful  voice  that  saved  me — the  voice 
that  prayed.  Where  was  it?" 
20 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

She  saw  them  smile  a  little  at  her  seem 
ing  incoherence. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  Mrs.  Imboden,  that's 
the  ether/'  one  of  the  nurses  said,  gently. 
But  she  persisted  and  questioned  until  the 
surgeon  himself  came  to  her  bedside. 

"Who  prayed,"  she  asked.  "Who  was 
it  that  prayed?" 

He  laid  lightly  on  hers  the  steady  hand 
that  had  worked  so  well  for  her,  and  spoke 
to  her  as  one  speaks  to  a  fretful  child. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Imboden,"  he  said,  sooth 
ingly,  "you  must  be  very  quiet.  Don't 
talk.  Don't  think.  As  for  this  voice  of 
yours — there  has  been  no  praying  here." 
He  drew  on  his  gloves  as  he  added,  with 
professional  pride,  "We  have  been  work 
ing." 

She  regained  strength  rapidly  and  some 
of  her  old-time  brightness  and  buoyancy 
came  with  it.  But  when  the  news  of  the 
accident  in  which  Jack  Imboden  had  met 
his  death  was  flashed  to  his  New  York 
home,  they  kept  it  from  her  as  long  as 
they  dared.  Before  this  double  tragedy 
in  her  life  her  friends  succumbed  in  silent 
21 


Tales  of  Destiny 

despair.  There  was  none  among  them 
strong  enough  to  tell  her,  so  they  delayed 
while  she  talked  of  him  constantly  and 
counted  the  days  that  must  pass  before  he 
could  return  to  her. 

When  ihey  finally  told  her,  she  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall  without  comment  and 
asked  them  to  leave  her  alone.  Through 
the  weary  days  and  nights  that  followed 
she  lay  there  making  no  outcry,  no  com 
plaint;  accepting  what  was  done  for  her 
without  question,  silent,  tense,  automatic. 

"She's  losing  strength  every  hour," 
said  the  day  nurse,  uneasily,  to  one  of  her 
associates.  'This  has  destroyed  her  only 
chance.  They  shouldn't  have  told  her — 
and  yet  how  could  they  help  it?  She  was 
constantly  asking  for  him,  and  the  anxiety 
and  suspense  would  have  been  as  bad  as 
the  truth.  Her  courage  would  have  pulled 
her  through — but  this  ends  it.  She  will 
not  have  to  mourn  her  husband  long." 

As  the  weeks  passed,  the  same  con 
viction  came  to  Florence  Imboden,  like  a 
flash  of  light  across  a  midnight  sky.  After 
all — what  matter?  It  would  not  be  long. 

22 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

In  any  case  she  might  not  have  lived  more 
than  a  year  or  two,  and  if  that  were  so  the 
situation  was  as  Jack  himself  would  have 
wished  it  to  be.  He  would  have  felt  that 
he  could  not  live  without  her  —  now  she 
need  not  live  on  without  him.  It  was  well. 
Only  a  short  time  and  they  would  be  to 
gether.  But  would  they?  The  question 
loomed  suddenly  before  her,  black,  for 
bidding,  shutting  out  the  light  that  had 
entered  her  soul. 

Would  they?  Was  there  a  hereafter? 
Was  the  soul  immortal  —  or  was  death 
merely  the  sinking  of  the  mortal  into  that 
nothing  which  is  poetically  called  eternal 
peace  and  sleep? 

In  her  full,  bright  life  she  had  never 
before  had  these  questions  come  home  to 
her.  She  had  attended  church,  she  had 
freely  given  from  the  abundance  that  was 
hers,  she  had  felt  deep  respect  for  the  aims 
and  teachings  of  religion  and  for  the  con 
viction  of  her  religious  friends.  But  in 
her  soul  she  was  conscious  that  she  did  not 
know — that  she  had  never  been  convinced 
— that  religion  was  not  the  vital  thing  to 
23 


Tales   of  Destiny 

her  it  was  to  some  others.  Now  her  heart 
cried  out  for  faith,  for  conviction,  for  im 
mortality. 

"If  I  could  be  certain  of  meeting  Jack 
again/'  she  breathed,  "  how  cheerfully,  how 
gladly  I  could  bear  whatever  comes." 

She  recalled  the  firm  conviction  in  which 
she  had  come  back  to  life  after  her  opera 
tion.  "There  is  a  soul,  there  is  a  soul," 
she  had  told  the  doctors,  with  her  mind 
full  of  that  experience  in  the  upper  world, 
her  ears  still  hearing  the  tones  of  that 
marvellous  voice.  They  had  smiled  over 
her  words,  telling  her  the  episode  was 
merely  an  ether  vision  and  a  common  one 
at  that.  No  doubt  they  were  right,  she 
told  herself.  The  shock  of  Jack's  death 
had  pulled  her  down  from  any  spiritual 
heights  she  might  have  reached  to  the 
earthly  plane  on  which  her  only  need  was 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  touch  of  his 
hand.  The  mysterious  voice  had  haunted 
her  for  a  few  days.  She  had  thought  of 
it,  dreamed  of  it — but  now  that,  too,  was 
gone.  She  was  getting  out  of  touch  with 
every  human  thing  —  worse  than  that, 
24 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

with  every  spiritual  thing.  This,  at  last, 
was  agony.  What  had  gone  before  was 
nothing.  She  was  alone,  hideously  alone. 
She  had  called  on  God  and  heard  no  an 
swer.  She  tried  to  pray  and  the  prayers 
seemed  a  hollow  mockery.  She  sank  into 
lethargic  despair. 

Effingham  found  her  so  one  day  when 
he  had  begged  to  see  her  for  a  moment. 
It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since 
her  illness,  as  he  had  unexpectedly  sailed 
for  England  the  day  after  her  operation 
was  performed.  She  had  always  liked  the 
sympathetic,  clean  -  souled,  ascetic  young 
Englishman,  and  she  found  herself  speak 
ing  to  him  as  she  had  spoken  to  no  one 
else. 

"You  believe  in  a  hereafter,  do  you 
not?"  she  asked,  wistfully,  while  he  was 
studying,  with  a  sense  of  shock,  the  great 
changes  in  her. 

He  flushed  a  little,  with  the  English 
man's  disinclination  to  touch  upon  the 
subjects  most  sacred  to  him.  But  some 
thing  in  her  eyes  and  face  made  him  re 
spond  simply  and  fully. 
25 


Tales  of  Destiny 

"Dear  Mrs.  Imboden,"  he  said,  "I  do, 
indeed.  The  faith  I  have  in  God  and 
heaven  is  very  near  to  me.  You  know/' 
he  added,  slowly,  "I  am  preparing  for  the 
Church,  and  I  am  here  to  study  with  a  dear 
friend  who  has  helped  me  more  than  any 
one  I  have  ever  known.  If  you  have  doubts 
— if  you  are  looking  for  strength  and  con 
viction,  he  can  help  you,  I  am  sure.  He  is 
a  wonderful  man.  Will  you  let  me  bring 
him  to  you,  or,  better  still,  will  you  go  with 
me  to  his  church  some  day?  It  is  not 
very  far  up-town,  and  I  would  like  to  have 
you  see  him  among  his  people.  Just 
now  he  is  giving  a  series  of  afternoon 
talks :  every  one  of  them  is  an  inspiration. 
Perhaps,"  he  added,  "you  would  be  will 
ing  to  drive  up  there  with  me  now." 

She  hesitated.  "  I  have  gone  out  but  a 
few  times,"  she  said,  doubtfully.  "I  am 
perfectly  able  to  go,  but  it  seems  so  hard 
for  me  to  move — to  rouse  myself  from  the 
condition  of  lethargy  I  am  in." 

The  tone  and  her  expression  made  Ef- 
fingham  unusually  persistent. 

"Come,"  he  urged.     "We'll   sit  at   the 
26 


The  Voice  in   the  World  of  Pain 

back  of  the  church,  and  nobody  will  see  us. 
You  need  not  see  Livingston  afterwards 
unless  you  wish,  although  I  fancy  you 
will  want  to  talk  to  him  when  you  have 
heard  him.  People  usually  do." 

She  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded, 
and  they  drove  up-town  together  to  the 
little  church,  tucked  modestly  out  of  the 
way  in  an  unfashionable  side  street.  The 
winter  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
the  church  was  but  dimly  lighted.  As  they 
entered  a  pew  near  the  door  they  saw  that 
all  the  seats  were  filled  by  shadowy  figures 
leaning  forward  as  if  in  prayer.  They 
settled  themselves  comfortably  and  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  quiet  and  peace  of 
the  place.  Through  the  door  at  the  right 
of  the  sanctuary  a  man  came.  She  could 
see  his  figure  but  dimly  in  the  uncertain 
light.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  over 
the  assembly  and  then  began  to  speak. 

At  the  first  word,  Florence  Imboden 
started  to  her  feet.  The  voice  was  a  deep 
barytone,  full  of  musical  inflections,  heard 
by  her  but  once  before — but  not  to  be  mis 
taken  when  heard  again.  It  was  the  voice 
,27 


Tales  of  Destiny 

of  the  World  of  Pain — the  voice  that  had 
comforted,  the  voice  that  had  saved.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  while  her 
brain  reeled.  Her  mind  was  going  at  last, 
she  thought ;  no  mind  could  stand  the  accu 
mulated  horrors  of  these  last  few  months. 
She  tried  to  think  calmly.  It  was  the 
voice — but  the  other  had  been  only  "an 
ether  vision."  Had  they  not  told  her  so? 
This  man  was  strange  to  her — but  that 
voice  was  not — could  never  be.  She  tried 
to  pray  but  could  not.  A  nervous  tremor 
convulsed  her.  She  rose  and  groped  her 
way  out  of  the  pew.  Effingham,  sud 
denly  roused  from  his  absorption,  assisted 
her  without  question  into  the  street  where 
her  carriage  stood  waiting.  She  motioned 
the  footman  away. 

"I  want  the  air,"  she  said  to  Effingham. 
"Let  us  walk  up  and  down  for  a  few  mo 
ments/' 

They  strolled  along  the  deserted  street, 
the  young  Englishman  supporting  her 
with  friendly  sympathy.  He  did  not  speak 
at  first,  but  as  he  saw  her  grow  calmer  he 
broke  the  silence. 

28 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

"I  am  afraid  you  did  not  like  him,"  he 
said,  with  some  disappointment ;  "  and  I  am 
so  sorry.  I  felt  sure  he  could  help  you." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  he  went  on  talk 
ing  with  the  friendly  purpose  of  giving 
her  time  to  collect  herself. 

"He  has  helped  me,  as  I  have  told  you, 
more  than  any  one  else,  and  I  have  perfect 
confidence  in  him.  I  turn  to  him  not  only 
with  my  own  troubles,  but  with  those  of 
my  friends.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my 
telling  you,"  he  went  on,  a  little  diffident 
ly,  "that  I  took  yours  to  him.  When  I 
learned  of  your  —  your  illness,  I  went  to 
him  the  day  before  sailing  and  asked  him 
to  pray  for  you  during  the  operation,  which 
was  to  be  performed  the  next  afternoon  at 
two.  Before  I  had  been  in  England  a  week 
I  had  a  letter  from  him. 

"He  wrote  that  your  case  strongly  ap 
pealed  to  him — had  'taken  hold  of  him, 
as  he  put  it.  So  much  so,  in  fact,  he  said, 
that  he  had  knelt  down  in  his  study  and 
prayed  for  you  for  two  hours  while  your 
operation  was  going  on.  Why,  Mrs.  Im- 
boden— " 

29 


Tales   of  Destiny 

She  reeled  slightly,  but  his  strong  arm 
held  her  up.  Her  mind  was  not  going, 
after  all ;  it  grasped  as  much  of  the  strange 
experience  as  she  could  understand.  She 
did  not  know  why  it  should  have  come  to 
her  of  all  the  world,  but  she  did  not  ques 
tion,  either.  It  was  for  some  great  purpose, 
she  felt.  When  the  human  soul  was  taxed 
beyond  its  powers  something  divine  en 
tered  in  and  helped  it.  She  was  no  mere 
atom  whirling  through  space,  to  exist  for 
a  little  time  and  perish.  Back  of  the  mys 
tery  of  life  was  some  benign  power — she 
did  not  know  what,  but  she  was  satisfied. 
In  these  dark  hours  of  her  life  it  had  given 
her  this  proof  that  it  existed.  She  could 
safely  trust  herself  to  it.  She  looked  up 
into  Effingham's  eyes  with  a  sudden  light 
in  hers  which  gladdened  him. 

"Your  friend  can  help  me,"  she  said, 
"and  he  shall — more  than  any  one  else  in 
the  whole  world.  He  shall  teach  me  and 
I  will  believe — I  know  it.  Let  us  go  to 
him  now." 

The  people  were  coming  out  of  the  lit 
tle  church  as  they  turned  back  together. 
30 


The  Voice  in  the  World  of  Pain 

They  stood  aside  for  a  moment  to  let  the 
others  pass.  Off  in  the  darkness  the  street- 
lamps  began  to  twinkle;  above,  the  cres 
cent  of  the  moon  hung  pale  in  the  twilight. 
Florence  Imboden  drew  a  deep  breath  as 
she  looked  up  at  it.  The  tragedy  of  life, 
of  which  her  mind  had  been  so  full — what 
was  it?  Nothing.  Fear,  pain,  loneliness, 
all  these  were  swept  away  by  the  mental 
illumination  that  had  come  to  her.  The 
grim  spectre  of  death  itself  was  a  benign 
friend,  waiting  smilingly  beside  her.  Her 
prayers  were  answered.  It  was  well  with 
her — it  was  to  be  well  with  her.  No  matter 
what  came,  or  how  long  or  short  the  time, 
she  could  bear,  she  could  wait.  This  little 
life  was  not  the  end.  There  was  another 
world,  another  existence — complete,  perfect. 
She  did  not  know  where,  but  it  was  some 
where — and  in  it — Jack  was  waiting! 


An    Episode 
at    Mrs.    Kirkpatrick's 


An    Episode 
at   Mrs.    Kirkpatrick's 


:ROM  the  first  the  new-comer 
did  not  appeal  to  the  other 
boarders  at  Mrs.  Kirkpat- 
rick's  select  establishment. 
There  were  various  reasons 
for  this.  She  was,  to  begin  with,  very 
diffident  and  rather  plain.  The  close  ob 
server  might  have  seen  beauty  in  her  face, 
and  the  student  of  human  nature  would 
have  liked  the  character  shown  in  the 
poise  of  her  head  and  in  the  direct  glance 
of  her  brown  eyes.  But  there  were  few  close 
observers  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's  table,  and 
fewer  students  of  human  nature.  They 
were  busy  men  and  women,  slightly  im- 
bittered,  perhaps,  by  boarding-house  meals, 
35 


Tales   of  Destiny 

and  by  abortive  efforts  at  hospitality  with 
in  the  confines  of  one  room.  They  ob 
served  that  the  new  -  comer  did  not  con 
tribute  to  the  persiflage  that  served  as 
conversation  at  meal  -  time,  and  they  de 
cided  that  she  was  dull.  When  they  dis 
covered  that  she  had  taken  a  hall  bed 
room  and  moved  a  piano  into  it  as  an  aux 
iliary  to  her  efforts  to  master  the  art  of 
singing,  their  indifference  gave  way  in  sev 
eral  instances  to  acute  disapproval,  and 
the  young  woman  whose  room  was  next 
to  the  singer's  sought  the  landlady  with 
an  energetic  protest. 

The  landlady  soothed  her,  as  she  soothed 
all  the  worms  that  turned.  It  was  doubtful, 
she  said,  whether  Miss  Dixon  would  re 
main  long.  Yes,  Dixon  was  her  name — 
Helen  Dixon — and  her  home  was  in  some 
little  town  up  in  Pennsylvania.  The  girl 
had  come  to  New  York  as  an  experiment, 
with  a  small  amount  of  money  she  had 
"saved  up"  by  teaching  school.  She 
could  remain  only  as  long  as  this  money 
last-ed;  but  she  thought  she  had  a  voice, 
and  that  it  needed  cultivation.  Mrs.  Kirk- 
36 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

patrick  did  not  agree  with  her  in  this  theory, 
and  her  own  voice  dropped  mysteriously 
as  she  added  her  suspicion  that  the  ex 
periment  would  be  a  brief  one. 

"An'  I  guess  you  won't  be  troubled 
much  when  she  is  singin',"  she  ended, 
cheerfully.  "She's  got  a  poor  little  peep 
of  a  voice  that  can't  creep  through  the 
key-hole.  I  don't  think  she'll  find  many 
teachers  in  New  York  to  encourage  her." 

Mrs.  Kirkpatrick  was  wrong.  Miss  Dix- 
on  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  teacher — 
a  young  man  recommended  by  the  organ 
ist  in  her  native  town,  and  sadly  in  need  of 
pupils.  He  accepted  a  large  portion  of 
the  girl's  savings  as  advance  payment, 
and  the  lessons  began. 

Several  days  later  it  dawned  upon  the 
members  of  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's  "family" 
that  they  had  among  them  a  source  of 
inexhaustible  hilarity.  It  was  Miss  Dix- 
on's  voice,  and  it  was  always  with  them. 
They  heard  it  when  they  left  the  house 
in  the  morning,  and  when  they  returned 
at  night;  and  it  never  failed  to  greet  them 
as  they  came  to  luncheon  or  dinner.  It 
37 


Tales   of  Destiny 

was  in  the  air  the  livelong  day — a  feeble, 
plaintive  thread  of  voice,  chirping  like  a 
depressed  sparrow  under  the  eaves,  some 
times  running  on  scales  and  exercises, 
again  pitched  high  on  ambitious  operatic 
efforts,  but  ever  and  always  off  the  key. 

The  inmates  of  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's  house, 
being  humorists,  did  not  observe  that  it 
was  plaintive.  When  they  discovered  that 
Miss  Dixon  took  herself  very  seriously  in 
deed,  the  situation  developed  in  humor 
ous  charm,  and  when  she  finally  began 
to  talk  shyly  about  her  "art,"  which  was 
at  the  beginning  of  her  fourth  week  of 
study,  they  gave  themselves  up  to  unre 
strained  joy,  and  to  a  secret  and  corporate 
understanding  from  which  she  alone  was 
shut  out. 

Meal-time  actually  became  popular  at 
Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's.  There  had  been  a 
"  once  "  when  her  boarders  permitted  them 
selves  to  be  lured  away  by  other  attrac 
tions,  but  this  was  past.  Now  they  as 
sembled  gladly  around  the  festive  board, 
and  the  subject  discussed  there  was  music, 
and  the  favorite  authority  on  that  topic 
38 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

was  Miss  Helen  Dixon,  assisted  by  her 
admiring  associates.  She  remained  se 
renely  unconscious  of  the  pleasantry  that 
went  on  at  her  expense,  and  when  they 
urged  her  to  sing  for  them,  as  they  did, 
she  accommodated  as  many  as  she  could 
in  her  room,  in  which  the  folding-bed  curled 
modestly  up  against  the  wall,  and  the 
remainder  of  her  guests  sat  in  the  hall 
outside  and  clasped  each  other's  hands  in 
ecstasy.  She  sang  a  great  deal  of  operatic 
music  for  them,  and  there  was  one  simple 
song,  only  one,  which  she  deigned  to  at 
tempt— "The  Land  o'  the  Leal."  She 
pitched  this  very  high,  sang  it  as  if  it  were 
rather  a  merry  roundelay,  and  in  a  key 
not  even  on  speaking  acquaintance  with 
that  in  which  the  accompaniment  was 
played;  so  it  made  a  delightful  evening's 
entertainment,  and  was  greatly  appre 
ciated  by  her  guests.  She  used  to  accept 
their  thanks  with  a  shy  smile  and  a  really 
pretty  blush;  and  once  or  twice,  under 
much  urging,  she  repeated  to  them  en 
couraging  tributes  from  her  "master/'  a 
gentleman  who  seemed  to  share  their  sense 
39 


Tales   of  Destiny 

of  humor,  for  he  allowed  her  to  choose  her 
own  music,  and  assured  her  that  she  was 
making  gratifying  progress. 

At  the  end  of  her  second  month  she  be 
gan  to  appear  only  at  breakfast  and  dinner, 
omitting  luncheon  on  the  ground  that  it 
interfered  with  practice,  and  by  the  middle 
of  the  third  month  she  was  dispensing 
with  breakfast  also,  substituting  milk  and 
a  roll  in  her  room.  It  looked  as  if  she 
might  soon  lead  a  foodless  life — through 
practice.  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick  admitted  that 
the  girl  had  made  a  new  arrangement 
with  her  by  which  she  paid  only  for  her 
room  and  her  dinner,  thus  saving  the  re 
mainder  of  her  money  for  lessons. 

"Of  course  I  don't  do  that  often,"  she 
added,  "  but  she  is  so  dead  set  on  it,  and  I 
suppose  it  won't  do  her  any  harm.  She 
gets  one  good  meal  a  day,  anyhow."  Mrs. 
Kirkpatrick  was  good-natured  and  philo 
sophical. 

Under  some  conditions  it  might  possibly 
have  occurred  to  Miss  Dixon's  fellow- 
boarders  that  at  this  point  her  position  had 
ceased  to  be  unrelievedly  funny.  But 
40 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

habit  is  a  great  power,  and  she  had  been 
amusing  them  for  three  months.  More 
over,  just  at  this  time  she  caught  a  cold, 
which,  while  it  did  not  seem  to  be  serious, 
added  an  especially  grotesque  quality  to 
her  voice.  It  did  not  seem  necessary  to 
her  to  cease  singing  for  the  benefit  of  her 
inflamed  vocal  cords,  so  she  continued  the 
usual  evening  concerts,  and  on  one  of 
these  occasions  the  enjoyment  of  a  certain 
37oung  man  was  so  intense  and  unclouded 
that  it  gave  birth  to  suspicion  in  Miss 
Dixon's  mind.  She  wheeled  on  the  piano- 
stool  and  faced  her  audience  with  a  long, 
direct  gaze.  They  took  it  variously — 
some,  like  the  unfortunate  youth,  with 
most  primitive  shame,  others  with  ill- 
cloaked  confusion,  one  or  two  with  a  mut 
tered  apology — but  on  each  face  lay  re 
vealed  the  story  of  deception.  Miss  Dixon 
rose,  opened  the  door,  and  stood  for  one 
instant  facing  them.  Then,  with  a  gesture 
surprisingly  full  of  dignity,  she  indicated 
the  small  hallway  which,  to  her  mind,  stood 
for  the  wide  outer  universe. 

"Will  you  please  go — all  of  you?"  she 


Tales   of  Destiny 

said.  "I  see  I  have  been — amusing  you 
this  winter.  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  under 
stand,  but  —  where  I  came  from  —  people 
are  different — " 

It  was  not  a  florid  rebuke,  and  there  was 
no  elocution  about  it,  but  there  was  an 
unsought  dramatic  touch  in  the  manner 
in  which  she  suddenly  sank  into  a  chair, 
rested  her  head  on  the  back  of  it,  and  burst 
into  tears.  Her  cold  and  the  lack  of  food 
had  perhaps  weakened  her — but  to  those 
who  left  her  there  and  went  slowly  down 
stairs  she  seemed  very  strong  in  that  weak 
ness.  They  had  not  meant  to  be  cruel; 
they  were  merely  shallow  and  foolish, 
and  because  they  wrere  they  did  not  know 
how  to  show  the  real  contrition  that  now 
disturbed  them.  They  stood  around  aim 
lessly  in  the  hall  for  a  while,  before  drift 
ing  away,  and  as  the  days  passed  they 
sought  to  catch  her  eye,  and  to  beam  upon 
her,  and  to  say  genuinely  friendly  things. 
She  remained  very  quiet  and  unresponsive. 
She  still  practised,  but  much  less  than 
formerly,  and  never  in  the  evenings;  and 
she  was  at  the  table  now  so  seldom  that 
42 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

she  had  been  ill  for  several  days  before 
they  missed  her  and  dared  to  ask  each 
other  where  she  was.  The  landlady  told 
them,  rather  shortly.  The  doctor  had 
talked  about  pneumonia,  and  "she  was 
sure  she  didn't  know  what  she'd  do  if 
the  girl  got  sick!"  It  was  useless  to 
send  for  her  mother,  who  was  old  and 
delicate. 

Boarding-houses  are  like  prisons  in  that 
vital  things  are  occultly  communicated. 
The  boarders  grasped  at  the  opportunity 
for  reparation,  and  the  women  said  eagerly 
that  they  would  nurse  Miss  Dixon,  taking 
turns  by  day  and  night,  if  she  would  allow 
them  that  privilege.  A  committee  of  two, 
whose  deeper  shame  did  duty  as  a  welling 
sympathy,  waited  on  her  with  this  request, 
and  even  to  their  untrained  eyes  the  utter 
collapse  of  the  girl  was  evident.  She 
thanked  them  listlessly,  but  showed  an 
entire  indifference  to  her  situation.  Ap 
parently  it  was  a  matter  of  no  importance 
to  her  whether  she  was  nursed  or  not. 
She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  sank 
into  a  singular  condition  of  stupor,  over 
43 


Tales  of  Destiny 

which  the  doctor  frowned  reflectingly  when 
he  came  again  that  night. 

Just  once,  during  the  days  that  followed, 
she  roused  from  her  lethargy,  and  this 
was  when  a  young  girl  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  also  a  musical  student,  who  had 
met  her  once  or  twice,  came  in  to  make  a 
sisterly  call.  Miss  Dixon  suddenly  opened 
her  eyes  and  asked  the  visitor  to  sing, 
repeating  the  demand  several  times  with 
strange  persistence  and  energy.  She  want 
ed  "The  Land  o'  the  Leal,"  and  the  other 
sang  it  softly,  but  very  sweetly,  in  a  sym 
pathetic  mezzo  voice,  suited  to  the  sim 
ple  pathos  of  the  words  and  melody.  At 
the  end  Miss  Dixon  thanked  her.  "  Some 
how,"  she  said,  drowsily,  "I  seem  to  un 
derstand  it  better  than  I  ever  did  before." 
She  dozed  again,  and  through  the  even 
ing  and  the  long  night  the  women  who 
watched  beside  her  heard  her  repeating 
some  of  the  \vords  softly  to  herself,  over 
and  over: 

"  I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snow  in  the  tha',  Jean," 

44 


An  Episode  at  Mrs0  Kirkpatrick's 

and  for  the  first  time  it  came  home  to  them, 
as  it  had  seemingly  already  been  borne  in 
upon  her,  that  this  was  true — that  she 
was  "wearing  awa'" — that  she  had  long 
been  "wearing  awa'"  before  they  noticed 
it,  and  that  she  might  not  get  well. 

The  next  morning  they  sent  for  her 
mother,  and  the  doctor  came  twice  during 
the  day,  and  over  the  establishment  of 
Mrs.  Kirkpatrick  there  rested  a  heavy 
gloom.  The  men  were  able  to  go  off  and 
divert  their  minds.  The  women  who  were 
at  home,,  and  on  day  duty  in  the  sick-room, 
went  about  with  reddened  eyelids  and 
with  aching  hearts.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  she  turned  upon  them 
the  direct  glance  of  her  brown  eyes,  which 
seemed  suddenly  wide  awake  and  brill 
iantly  expressive. 

"When  my  mother  comes/'  she  gasped, 
"be  good  to  her.  And  don't  tell  her — 
don't  tell  her" — her  face  twisted  strangely 
as  she  struggled  for  utterance — "don't 
tell  her  you  laughed  at  me.  Don't — let — 
her  —  know  —  I  failed!"  In  that  gasping 
prayer  lay  for  two  women  both  the  pun- 
45 


Tales   of  Destiny 

ishment  and  the  lesson  of  a  lifetime.  For 
she  spoke  no  more.  At  long  intervals  a 
few  words  of  the  old  song  passed  her  lips, 
and  during  the  night  she  moaned  wearily 
once  or  twice.  Towards  morning  she  threw 
her  arms  up  over  her  head  with  a  long 
sigh  of  utter  exhaustion,  and  lay  very 
still — and  over  the  room  settled  the  great 
solemnity  and  the  peace  Death  brings 
with  him  when  he  comes.  The  watchers, 
who  had  never  been  so  near  him  before,  felt 
his  presence  before  they  turned  to  the  bed 
from  which  the  soul  of  Helen  Dixon  had 
passed,  leaving  there  a  most  unhumorous 
little  dead  woman  who  smiled  up  at  them 
inscrutably. 

That  odd  smile  still  rested  on  her  lips 
when  her  mother  came,  and  the  delicate 
old  woman  who  was  led  into  the  dark  room 
seemed  to  find  in  it  the  comfort  of  a  message 
and  a  promise.  For  hours  she  sat  there, 
holding  the  hand  of  her  dead  child,  her 
one  child,  and  to  her  came  the  kind  friends 
who  had  done  so  much  for  her  Helen.  She 
knew,  she  said,  for  Helen  had  written 
home  during  the  winter  of  their  friendli- 
46 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

ness  and  their  sympathy  with  her  work. 
Now  she  wished  them  to  tell  her  of  her 
daughter's  last  weeks.  The  letters  had 
been  less  frequent,  and  a  little  depressed, 
she  thought;  no  doubt  it  was  this  illness 
coming  on.  Would  they  tell  her  all — every 
thing? —  no  detail  was  too  trivial  for  a 
mother's  ear  and  a  mother's  lonely  heart — 

The  brave  old  voice  trembled  slightly, 
but  she  conquered  the  human  spasm,  and 
faced  her  visitors  with  a  quaint,  old-fash 
ioned  dignity  of  manner.  One  by  one 
they  talked  to  her  there  and  told  her  all — 
all  that  they  had  planned  to  tell  her  after 
her  daughter's  dying  charge. 

It  was  of  the  girl's  voice  they  spoke 
most — of  its  beauty  and  its  promise !  They 
told  her  what  it  had  been  to  them  to  know 
her  daughter  and  to  enjoy  her  singing, 
and  to  watch  her  delight  in  the  art  she 
was  studying  with  such  gratifying  results. 
It  was  not  subtle  lying  that  a  diplomat 
could  have  admired,  but  it  was  convincing 
to  the  one  hearer.  They  said  no  one  of 
them  had  ever  heard  a  more  sympathetic 
voice,  and  they  repeated  enthusiastic  com- 
47 


Tales    of  Destiny 

ments  of  her  teacher,  and  finished  with  a 
little  tribute  from  a  musical  critic  brought 
forward  for  the  occasion.  As  they  talked 
the  woman  bowed  at  her  daughter's  side, 
straightened  herself,  and  held  her  white 
head  erect,  and  almost  forgot  for  a  few 
seconds  that  her  daughter's  voice  was 
hushed  forever. 

'Then  she  was  happy/'  she  breathed. 
"She  was  happy  the  last  winter  of  her 
life!  I  sometimes  feared  —  she  had  had 
so  man3^  disappointments,  so  much  grief. 
And  towards  the  last  her  letters —  But 
you  all  loved  her,  and  you  were  kind  to 
her,  and  she  was  happy — she  was  happy 
— oh,  thank  God — thank  God  for  that!" 

She  laid  her  head  on  the  silent  breast 
of  her  child,  and  cried  softly,  but  they 
were  not  bitter  tears;  and  as  she  wept  it 
seemed  to  the  women  sitting  there  as  if 
the  smile  on  the  cold  face  against  the  pil 
low  became  ironical — but  that  was  perhaps 
because  they  were  tired,  over-strained,  and 
— knew  it  should  be  very  ironical. 

They  carried  out  with  unfaltering  men 
dacity  their  plan  of  atonement,  and  what 
48 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

they  lacked  in  finesse  they  made  up  in 
human  pity  and  zeal.  They  had  Miss 
Dixon's  teacher  call  on  her  mother  the 
next  morning,  and  the  young  man  did 
his  part  simply  and  naturally,  and  told 
his  dim -eyed  listener  of  the  career  her 
child  might  have  had,  if  she  had  lived. 
Then  he  did  something  which  would  not 
have  occurred  for  one  moment  to  his  artless 
mind  save  for  the  conversation  he  had  the 
night  before  with  Miss  Dixon's  fellow- 
boarders. 

"  I  want  to  ask  a  very  great  favor  of 
you/'  he  said,  a  little  huskily.  "Miss 
Dixon  had  just  paid  me  in  advance  for 
another  quarter,  and  that  money,  of  course, 
would  in.  any  event  be  returned  without 
question.  I  would  not  trouble  you  with 
such  a  detail  at  such  a  time,  but  I  wish 
also — very  much — to  return  to  you  all 
she  has  paid  me  this  winter.  It — it  was 
enough  payment  to  have  her  as  a  pupil." 
With  which  masterly  lie  he  laid  the  little 
packet  on  the  table,  and  stood  up,  looking 
with  boyish  and  genuine  sorrow  at  the 
white  head  below  the  level  of  his  broad 
4  49 


Tales    of  Destiny 

shoulders.  A  sudden  thought  of  his  own 
mother  came  to  him,  and  he  gulped  hard 
as  he  said  good-bye,  anjd  went  away. 

In  her  place  by  her  daughter's  side  Mrs. 
Dixon  talked  that  afternoon  to  Mrs.  Kirk- 
patrick. 

"So  much  kindness,  so  much  sympa 
thy,"  she  said.  "Oh,  how  it  has  helped 
to  l<now  that  my  poor  darling  had  such 
friend,s!  They  knew  her  so  short  a  time, 
and.  yet  they  loved  her  so.  But  it  was 
always  that  way  with  Helen;  she  won 
hearts  easily.  In  our  town  every  one 
loved  her;  they  have  always  come  to  her 
with  their  troubles — the  children  and  the 
young  girls,  and  even  the  older  women. 
She  was  the  teacher  so  long,  you  see — 
and  she  was  so  good  to  them.  Strangely 
enough,  they  were  not  interested  in  her 
music,  and  they  tried  to  discourage  her 
from  going  to  New  York.  Several  times 
she  had  money  saved  to  come,  and  she 
gave  it  to  friends  who  were  in  trouble. 
My  neighbors  would  say  to  me  often  after 
she  finally  came,  '  Well,  Mrs.  Dixon,  if 
Helen  has  found  friends  half  as  good  to  her 
50 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

as  she  is  to  others,  she  is  fortunate/  And 
I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  them  that  she 
had." 

The  little  woman  rambled  on,  and  Mrs. 
Kirkpatrick  moved  restlessly  in  her  chair. 
She  had  not  been  oblivious  to  the  situa 
tion  in  her  house  that  winter;  she  firmly 
reminded  herself  now  that  she  had  taken 
no  part  in  it,  and  that,  on  the  whole,  she 
had  been  considerate  towards  the  girl. 
The  situation  seemed  to  call  for  some  re 
assuring  reflections. 

That  afternoon  there  came  to  the  house 
from  the  little  town  in  Pennsylvania  a 
silent,  dark-browed  man  who  quietly  and 
capably  took  charge  of  the  Dixons,  living 
and  dead.  The  mother  burst  into  wild 
weeping  when  she  saw  him,  but  later  she 
confided  to  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick  how  supreme 
was  the  relief  of  his  presence. 

"He  told  me  he  would  come,"  she  said, 
"but  I  was  afraid  he  could  not  get  away. 
He  is  almost  like  a  son  to  me — is  Jean — 
and  I  would  have  liked  him  as  a  son.  He 
has  always  cared  for  Helen,  since  they 
were  children  together.  But  she  did  not 


Talcs   of  Destiny 

love  him  that  way,  so  they  were  just  friends. 
I've  always  been  sorry  she  didn't  marry 
him,  and  I  hoped  perhaps  she  would,  some 
day,  when  I  left  her.  But  she  has  gone 
from  me  first,  and  I  am  alone — " 

The  simple  services  were  held  that  even 
ing  in  the  tiny  room  of  the  dead  girl — and 
because  it  was  so  tiny  there  were  present 
only  the  mother  and  Jean  and  the  clergy 
man,  which  was  as  it  should  have  been. 
Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's  ample  proportions  over 
flowed  across  the  lintel  of  the  door  into  the 
hall,  and  back  of  her  were  members  of 
"the  family,"  unhappy  and  strangely  ill 
at  ease  in  the  presence  of  Jean  Mackenzie. 
Then,  as  the  exigencies  of  boarding-house 
sensitiveness  require  consideration,  the 
other  painful  details  were  attended  to  late 
at  night.  At  half-past  eleven  a  sombre 
vehicle  stood  in  front  of  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 
house,  and  grouped  about  it  in  attitudes 
of  patient  waiting  were  the  driver  and  the 
undertaker's  two  assistants,  who  were  to 
go  with  it  to  the  midnight  train.  In  the 
drawing-room  the  mother  waited  for  the 
precious  burden  to  be  carried  down-stairs; 
52 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

above,  Jean  Mackenzie  turned  his  sombre 
eyes  on  the  men  and  women  of  the  house 
hold  who  had  assembled  in  the  little  upper 
hall. 

"I'm  not  going  through  the  farce  of 
thanking  you  people  for  what  you've  done/' 
he  said.  "You've  tried  to  make  up  for 
it  these  last  few  days,  and  you've  man 
aged  to  spare  her  mother.  She'll  thank 
you — the  dear  old  soul!  But  you've  killed 
that  girl  among  you!  You  know  it,  and 
I  know  it.  She  wrote  me  the  whole  story 
— and  God  knows  I  tried  to  get  her  away 
from  you.  I  tried  to  make  her  come  back 
home  where  people  knew  her  for  what 
she  was  —  the  sweetest,  gentlest  woman 
that  ever  lived — tender  beyond  words  to 
everybody  and  everything.  It  was  that 
kind  of  woman  you  chose  to  guy  to  death. 
No  wonder  she  didn't  see  it;  no  wonder 
she  didn't  understand.  How  could  she 
when  there  wasn't  an  atom  of  meanness 
and  cruelty  in  her  beautiful  nature.  And 
to  think  she  did  not  let  us  know  when  she 
was  ill!  To  think  she  had  to  die  here 
among  you — you — " 
53 


Tales   of  Destiny 

The  door  of  the  bedroom  opened  softly, 
and  the  men  came  out  with  their  burden. 
Gently  they  bore  it  past  the  group  and 
down  the  three  nights  of  stairs  to  the  hearse 
which  awaited  it.  The  street  was  dark 
and  silent;  there  was  no  one  near  as  the 
plain  casket  was  slid  into  its  resting-place 
and  the  door  was  snapped  shut.  The 
undertaker's  men  climbed  to  their  places 
beside  the  driver,  and  the  horses  started 
off  at  a  slow  walk,  their  iron-shod  hoofs 
falling  with  a  harsh,  metallic  click  on  the 
asphalt  pavement. 

A  single  carriage  drew  up  at  the  curb, 
and  Mr.  Mackenzie  gave  his  arm  to 
the  little  mother  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  tenderly  led  her  forth.  At  the 
door  she  paused  and  looked  once  more 
around  the  circle  of  pale  faces  which  a 
strange  fascination  had  drawn  together 
for  this  last  scene.  She  kissed  the 
women. 

"How  can  I  thank  you?"  she  sobbed. 
"How  can  I  ever' thank  you?" 

The  hand  of  the  man  beside  her  tightened 
on  her  arm. 

54 


An  Episode  at  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's 

"  Come,  mother/'  he  said;  "  I  have  thank 
ed  them  for  you." 

He  helped  her  down  the  steps,  put  her 
in  the  carriage,  and  took  his  place  beside 
her  without  a  backward  look. 

"Helen's  friends,"  they  heard  her  sob, 
as  the  driver  lifted  the  reins.  "  Such  good 
friends  to  my  poor  little  girl." 

The  carriage  moved  off  slowly  through 
the  deserted  street,  following  Helen  Dixon 
on  her  journey  home  to  the  people  who 
loved  her.  The  group  of  men  and  women 
on  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick's  front  steps  looked 
after  it  with  straining  eyes  until  it  turned 
the  corner.  They  were  a  silent  and  a 
downcast  group,  in  which  a  too  exuberant 
sense  of  humor  had  been  blighted  at  its 
fullest  flower  as  by  a  heavy  frost. 


OF 


PROPERTY  OF 

wsr  r.c 


The   Wife    of  a   Hero 


The   Wife   of  a    Hero 


?HEN  Sergeant  Ralston,  of 
"the  — th  United  States  In- 
Jgfantry,  received  his  com 
mission  before  the  outbreak 
,  of  the  Spanish  -  American 
war,  the  enlisted  men  of  the  regiment  re 
joiced  exceedingly  and  the  officers  with 
out  exception  gave  him  a  cordial  welcome 
to  their  ranks.  Ralston  was  not  only 
an  excellent  soldier,  but  a  very  popular 
one.  There  was  something  singularly 
magnetic  in  his  personality.  He  was  the 
handsomest  man  in  the  regiment  and  its 
crack  athlete;  but  he  remained  wholly 
unspoiled  by  success  and  an  amount  of 
praise  and  attention  enough  to  have  turned 
any  young  head.  He  was  wholesome,  loy 
al,  sincere,  and  unassuming.  He  worked 
59 


Tales   of  Destiny 

indefatigably,  but  never  lacked  time  to 
serve  a  friend.  Radiating  health  and 
happiness  as  the  sun  does  warmth,  he 
was  yet  the  one  to  whom  his  associates 
instinctively  turned  in  times  of  sickness 
or  trouble.  He  was  a  paragon,  in  brief, 
about  whom,  in  the  entire  course  of  his 
military  career,  but  one  unkind  remark 
had  been  made.  That  emanated  from 
Major  Buckstone,  a  confirmed  dyspeptic, 
who  had  long  contemplated  with  gloomy 
eyes  the  joyous  existence  of  the  young 
sergeant.  He  once  said,  tersely,  that 
young  Ralston  would  be  endurable  if  he 
had  a  redeeming  vice  —  a  comment  over 
which  Ralston  himself  smiled  with  utter 
simplicity. 

When  the  young  man  became  lieutenant 
and  a  more  interesting  object  than  ever  in 
his  new  uniform,  the  officers  promptly  ad 
mitted  him  to  their  club,  while  their  wives 
began  no  less  promptly  to  speculate  as 
to  what  manner  of  woman  Mrs.  Ralston 
might  be.  He  had  left  the  post  the  week 
after  he  received  his  commission,  and  had 
returned  a  fortnight  later  with  a  bride  of 
60 


The  Wife    of  a   Hero 

whom  nothing  was  known  save  that  she 
was  a  very  beautiful  woman.  Ralston 
adapted  himself  to  his  new  position  with 
an  easy  grace  which  left  nothing  to  be 
desired,  though  it  stimulated  a  mildly 
wondering  speculation  as  to  his  past. 
His  wife,  however,  might  be  wholly  differ 
ent — "quite  impossible/'  as  the  Colonel's 
wife  apprehensively  put  it  when  she  was 
considering  the  matter  in  council  with  her 
friends.  It  was  finally  decided  to  invite 
the  Ralstons  only  to  the  large  social  func 
tions  of  the  post — such  as  receptions  and 
balls.  On  these  occasions  a  critical  eye 
could  be  kept  on  Mrs.  Ralston,  and  if  she 
conducted  herself  fitly  the  glorious  possi 
bilities  of  more  exclusive  affairs  would  lie 
open  to  her. 

It  was  an  excellent  solution  of  the  prob 
lem,  which  doubtless  would  have  met 
every  requirement  had  it  been  carried 
out.  But  just  at  this  juncture  war  was 
declared,  and,  before  the  women  of  the  post 
had  recovered  from  the  shock,  the  regi 
ment  was  ordered  to  the  front.  There  was 
joy  among  the  men  and  grief  among  their 
61 


Tales   of  Destiny 

wives.  There  was  a  tumult  of  expectation, 
preparation,  and  excitement.  Then  the 
regiment  marched  away  with  band  play 
ing,  colors  flying,  and  hearts  under  the 
new  uniforms  beating  less  gayly  than  they 
would  have  but  for  the  heavy  hearts  left 
behind. 

Mrs.  Ralston  was  at  the  station  to  see 
the  last  of  her  handsome  husband,  and 
even  in  their  grief  many  of  the  women 
observed  her.  They  saw  that  she  was 
young  and  lovely,  with  a  Madonna-like 
beauty  that  touched  the  heart  appealingly ; 
saw,  too,  that  she  was  suffering  and  bear 
ing  her  suffering  with  a  dignity  equal  to 
their  own.  Several  of  the  older  women, 
steeled  by  experience  in  Indian  campaigns 
on  the  frontier,  mentally  resolved  that  they 
must  and  would  do  something  for  her. 
They  had  each  other  to  lean  on — and  she 
was  utterly  alone.  But  they  forgot  her 
as  they  watched  the  crowded  train  bearing 
away  their  own  to  sickness,  to  battle,  per 
haps  to  death.  To  each  woman  there 
was  that  day  just  one  man  in  the  world — 
not  especially  striking  or  heroic  to  the 
62 


The  Wife   of  a  Hero 

casual  glance,  but  already  a  laurel-crowned 
hero  to  the  wet  eyes  that  strained  for  a 
last  look  at  him. 

Mrs.  Ralston  was  turning  away  when 
the  Colonel's  wife  touched  her  lightly  on 
the  arm.  The  two  looked  at  each  other. 
For  a  moment  neither  could  speak.  Both 
faces  were  wet  with  tears — tears  that  had 
not  fallen  until  the  last  car  rounded  that 
distant  curve.  The  appealing  brown  eyes 
of  the  young  lieutenant's  wife  gazed  piti 
fully  into  the  motherly  gray  ones  of  Colo 
nel  Holman's  "commanding  officer/'  as  he 
called  her,  and  in  that  instant  there  was 
born  an  affection  and  an  understanding 
between  the  two  which  helped  them  both 
through  the  weary  months  that  followed. 

For  a  time  it  was  not  so  hard.  The 
regiment  was  comfortably  camped  at  Tam 
pa,  and  glowing  reports  came  back  of  the 
excellent  condition  of  men  and  officers. 
May  days  in  Florida  were  not  unpleasant, 
they  discovered,  and  the  active  exercise 
and  out-door  life  kept  them  in  good  health 
and  high  spirits.  The  women  left  behind 
at  the  post  sewed,  read  the  newspapers, 
63 


Tales  of  Destiny 

wrote  long  letters  to  their  absent  lords, 
and  became  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Ralston 
— something  last  in  fact  but  not  in  impor 
tance.  Mrs.  Holman,  who  did  nothing  by 
halves,  took  up  energetically  the  wife  of 
the  young  lieutenant.  There  were  no  social 
functions  in  progress;  but  the  two  rode 
and  drove  and  sewed  together,  read  each 
other  extracts  from  the  letters  written  by 
their  husbands  (Ralston's  epistolary  style 
was  as  charming  as  himself,  the  Colonel's 
wife  discovered),  and  the  bond  of  friend 
ship  between  the  two  grew  stronger  as  the 
weeks  rolled  on. 

The  other  women  followed  the  example 
set  them,  for  no  one  could  long  resist  Mrs. 
Ralston.  She  was  so  sweet,  so  charming, 
so  unconscious  of  her  striking  beauty, 
so  warmly  sympathetic  and  so  modestly 
responsive  to  each  friendly  advance  that 
she  slipped  without  effort  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  exclusive  circle  and  found 
a  loving  welcome  there.  When  they  dis 
covered  that  she  had  a  beautiful  contralto 
voice  and  sang  with  art  as  well  as  feeling, 
her  little  triumph  was  complete;  but  she 
64 


The  Wife    of  a  Hero 

remained  as  unconscious  and  as  unspoiled 
as  her  husband.  The  Ralstons  were  much 
alike — so  alike  that  Mrs.  Buckstone  voted 
such  even  sweetness  open  to  distrust.  As 
this  sentiment  was  regarded  as  a  wifely 
plagiarism,  it  fell  rather  flat.  Mrs.  Ralston 
sang  to  them,  banished  their  headaches 
by  the  soothing  touch  of  a  woman's  mag 
netic  hand,  raised  their  drooping  spirits 
by  her  own  bright  hopefulness,  thought 
of  and  did  a  thousand  little  things  that 
soothed  any  fretful  forebodings  of  theirs, 
without  a  thought  of  sympathy  for  herself 
from  any  one.  She  wrote  something  of  it 
all  to  her  husband  in  the  field,  whose  fond 
and  proud  replies  were  not  among  the 
extracts  read  to  Mrs.  Holman. 

Then  came  the  sailing  of  the  transports 
for  Cuba,  and  anxious  days  at  the  post 
until  it  was  known  that  the  regiment  was 
landed  safely  on  Cuban  soil.  News,  more 
or  less  accurate,  filled  the  extra  editions 
of  the  newspapers.  The  — th  Infantry, 
under  Colonel  Holman,  was  to  take  part 
in  the  attack  on  Santiago  —  that  much, 
at  least,  was  definitely  known  by  the  women 
65 


Tales   of  Destiny 

at  the  post.  They  read  the  defences  of 
the  intrenched  Spanish  army,  they  ab 
sorbed  the  surmises  of  gifted  journalists 
as  to  the  plans  of  attack,  they  followed 
with  sick  hearts  the  accounts  of  the  weary 
marches  and  the  bitter  hardships  of  their 
husbands,  sons,  and  brothers.  Then  came 
the  days  of  waiting  when  both  armies  were 
lined  up  face  to  face,  like  blood-hounds  in 
leash,  awaiting  the  signal  to  fly  at  each 
other's  throats. 

The  great  battle  was  to  begin  at  sun 
rise  the  next  morning.  Then  on  the  day 
following  that.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it 
had  already  begun  and  was  raging  at 
that  moment  with  great  loss  of  life  among 
the  Americans.  These  conflicting  reports 
flooded  the  country  in  the  extra  editions 
of  the  newspapers,  for  heartaches  must 
not  interfere  with  circulation.  Hour  after 
hour  dejected  army  women  pored  over 
them  with  eyes  that  saw  only  blood-stained 
battle-fields  and  stricken,  helpless  figures 
lying  uncared  for  in  the  long  grass. 

There  were  few  open  moans  among  these 
women — that  would  have  seemed  beneath 
66 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

the  dignity  of  brave  officers'  wives.  They 
merely  kept  out  of  sight,  away  from  the 
sympathetic  questioning  of  friends,  and 
bore  the  agony  of  apprehension  as  best 
they  could,  in  dignity  if  in  despair.  Mrs. 
Ralston  alone  was  buoyant  and  hopeful. 

'  They  will  come  home  full  of  glory 
and  triumph/'  she  said  to  Mrs.  Holman. 
"Your  husband  will  be  a  brigadier.  Ev 
erybody  will  be  a  hero,  and  the  regiment 
will  parade  through  the  streets  while  the 
city  goes  mad  with  patriotic  joy.  I  feel  it 
— I  know.  If  it  were  to  be  otherwise,  some 
instinct  would  tell  me." 

Mrs.  Holman  took  the  younger  woman's 
face  between  her  hands  and  kissed  it  lightly 
on  the  cheeks. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "in  that  remark 
you  show  your  artless  innocence.  From 
your  adaptability  to  all  things  here  I  had 
fancied  you  knew  more  about  army  life. 
If  you  really  think  that  glory  follows  valor 
and  that  anything  but  a  pull  will  bring 
promotions  you  are  a  dear  little  baby  in 
your  knowledge  of  us."  From  which  com 
ment  it  will  be  seen  that  Mrs.  Holman 
67 


Tales   of  Destiny 

was  in  a  depressed  and  bitter  frame  of 
mind. 

In  the  field  Lieutenant  Ralston  was  no 
less  sanguine  than  his  hopeful  young 
wife.  Through  the  terrible  days  when 
the  army  was  marching  towards  Santiago 
he  was,  as  ever,  the  life  and  inspiration 
of  the  regiment.  His  superb  physique 
seemed  to  defy  illness  and  fatigue.  He 
was  always  cheerful,  always  hopeful,  al 
ways  stimulatingly  gay.  A  few  of  the 
men  who  had  withstood  his  fetching  ways 
up  to  this  time  succumbed  to  them  now. 
Ralston's  name  ran  through  the  letters 
home  as  the  love  motif  runs  through  Wag- 
nerian  opera.  Ralston  had  nursed  this 
one;  he  had  "braced  up"  that  one;  he  had 
divided  his  last  suit  of  flannels  with  another 
who  had  recklessly  thrown  his  knapsack 
away  during  the  weary  march.  Ralston 
was  "a  thoroughbred,"  "a  trump,"  "a 
corking  good  fellow,"  so  ran  the  enthu 
siastic  tributes  from  enlisted  men  and 
officers  alike.  When  they  reached  the  post 
these  eulogies  were  passed  on  to  the  young 
officer's  wife,  who  proudly  thanked  God 
68 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

for  them  and  for  him,  and  felt  how  much 
she  had  to  live  up  to. 

When  the  day  of  the  fight  dawned  and 
the  regiment  made  its  historic  charge  up 
San  Juan  Hill,  no  one  went  into  the  action 
more  blithely,  more  gallantly,  than  Ral 
ston.  The  men  of  his  company  loved  their 
captain,  but  adored  their  second  lieuten 
ant.  It  was  Ralston's  yellow  head  to  which 
their  eyes  turned,  his  flashing  eye  to  which 
their  courage  responded.  They  saw  them 
both  for  a  time  as  the  regiment  began  its 
bloody  climb  up  the  slope.  Slowly  the 
men  crept  forward,  the  death-song  of  the 
Mauser  bullets  on  every  side,  the  crash 
of  artillery  in  the  distance,  the  moans 
of  dying  men  at  their  very  feet.  Death 
ploughed  many  furrows  in  their  ranks,  but 
men  dashed  forward  to  fill  up  the  gaps, 
and  the  blue  lines  crawled  irresistibly  on. 
Far  up  the  slope  they  saw  Colonel  Hoi- 
man,  his  left  hand  whirling  his  sword 
awkwardly  above  his  white  head  as  his 
right  arm  hung  broken  at  his  side,  while 
his  hoarse-voice  orders  boomed  above  the 
roar  of  the  fight.  An  electric  thrill  of  pride 
69 


Tales   of  Destiny 

ran  through  the  regiment  at  the  sight,  and 
the  men  cheered  wildly. 

Ralston,  his  virgin  sword  gripped  tightly 
in  his  hand,  heard  the  cheer,  and  won 
dered  what  had  gone  wrong  in  him  that 
he  felt  its  force  so  dully.  He  kept  his 
place,  climbing  slowly  up  the  hill  with 
his  company  against  the  enemy's  fire, 
but  a  strange,  indescribably  horrible  sen 
sation  was  settling  upon  him.  Was  he 
hurt?  He  had  thought  so  at  first,  for  the 
feeling  had  numbed  him  so  suddenly.  A 
moment  ago  he  had  been  laughing  at  his 
men.  The  next,  the  space  at  his  right 
and  left,  where  two  eager  comrades  had 
been  pressing  forward  against  his  shoul 
ders,  was  suddenly  made  void  as  two  limp 
bodies  fell  with  grotesque  abruptness  at 
his  very  feet — dead  things,  that  but  this 
moment  had  been  men.  The  hand  that 
was  so  tightly  grasping  his  sword  began 
to  tremble.  An  unseen  force  seemed  to 
clutch  his  throat.  He  felt  giddy,  and  a 
deathly  nausea  seized  him.  There  —  an 
other  man  in  front  had  gone,  and  another 
just  behind  him.  His  captain  had  fallen 
70 


The  Wife   of  a  Hero 

early  in  the  action,  and  the  first  lieuten 
ant  was  in  command  of  the  company.  At 
last  he,  too,  was  down — on  his  knees  first, 
dying  hard,  with  spasmodic  effort  to  rise, 
his  hand  reaching  for  the  sword  that  had 
fallen  beside  him,  his  tongue  calling  a  last 
order  to  his  men — a  hero  thrust  out  of  the 
world  through  glory's  wide  portal. 

Ralston's  place  was  forward.  It  was 
his  to  lead.  The  men  in  the  company 
were  looking  at  him,  with  a  new  lust  for 
blood  in  their  eyes,  their  faces  distorted 
by  the  savage  wish  to  bring  swift  retri 
bution  to  the  enemy  for  the  loss  of  their 
officers. 

Nothing  could  hold  them  back;  it  was 
Ralston's  place,  his  envied  privilege,  to 
lead  them  on  amid  that  deadly  hail-storm 
of  shrapnel  and  bullets. 

It  was  his  duty,  he  told  himself  dully, 
but  he  could  not  move.  His  feet  seemed 
nailed  to  the  earth.  His  tongue  felt  para 
lyzed;  he  could  not  utter  an  order.  His 
brain  was  numb.  The  next  bullet  would 
hit  him,  he  reflected,  and  he,  too,  would  be 
a  dead  thing,  trampled  upon  by  comrades 


Tales   of  Destiny 

hurrying  to  the  front.  The  Spaniards 
were  aiming  at  the  American  officers,  that 
was  evident.  They  fired  at  men  who 
carried  swords  and  had  stripes  on  their 
trousers.  He  would  be  the  next  victim — or 
was  he  in  some  horrible  nightmare  from 
which  he  might  mercifully  awaken  before 
his  mind  went?  No,  it  was  no  dream. 
He  was  in  the  great  fight  of  the  nineteenth 
century  —  a  fight  that  would  go  down  in 
history.  He  was  there  —  an  officer  in  the 
American  army  —  placed  by  the  death  of 
his  superiors  in  command  of  his  company. 
They  were  waiting  for  him  to  lead  them; 
already  the  human  lines  were  wavering 
a  little,  and  on  the  familiar  faces  near 
him  he  saw  settling  a  look  of  doubting 
comprehension  and  horrent  consternation. 
They  saw  what  was  the  matter.  Well, 
let  them  see.  He  could  not  lead  them. 
He  knew  he  was  afraid.  He  branded 
himself  a  cursed  coward  as  he  tottered  on 
his  trembling  limbs,  then  fell  full  length 
on  the  trampled  grass.  With  a  yelp  of 
mingled  rage  and  loathing  his  men  swept 
on,  in  glad  obedience  to  the  leadership 
72 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

of  Sergeant  O'Grady,  who  had  promptly 
grasped  his  opportunity. 

How  long  he  lay  there  he  did  not  know. 
One  in  extreme  mental  agony  takes  little 
heed  of  the  flight  of  time.  At  first  he 
thought  only  of  himself — his  young,  boyish 
self,  so  full  of  life  and  the  joy  of  living, 
and  so  soon  to  be  swept  out  of  the  sweet 
ness  and  beauty  of  it  all  into  the  coldness 
and  darkness  of  some  Cuban  grave.  His 
teeth  chattered,  a  tremor  shook  his  powerful 
figure.  Then  his  mind  turned  to  her — his 
wife,  the  woman  he  so  loved,  the  woman 
who  tried  to  love  God  as  much  as  she  loved 
him.  At  this  very  hour  she  was  sitting 
in  their  far-off  home,  unconscious  of  his 
peril,  unconscious  of  his — 

The  thought  seared  his  soul  like  a  red- 
hot  iron.  Unconscious?  Yes,  thank  God 
for  that!  Unconscious  that  he  had  failed 
— that  he  had  turned  his  back  on  comrades 
and  country  in  the  supreme  moment.  He 
groaned  aloud.  But  it  was  not  too  late 
even  yet.  Already  the  strange  numbness 
was  leaving  him,  already  the  blood  was 
beginning  to  stir  again  in  his  veins.  He 
73 


Tales  of  Destiny 

would  follow  his  company,  he  would  fight, 
fight,  fight!  He  would  wipe  out  with 
blood,  his  own  if  necessary,  the  memory 
of  that  damning  syncope  of  the  coward's 
panic.  He  would  up  and  follow  his  com 
rades,  and  some  day  he  could  look  into  her 
dear  eyes  again. 

His  yellow  head,  lying  like  a  cluster  of 
flowers  in  the  dusty,  trampled  grass,  caught 
the  eye  of  a  Spanish  sharp-shooter  in  a 
distant  tree.  He  grinned  as  he  took  aim; 
the  man  doubtless  was  wounded,  but  it 
was  so  easy  and  such  pleasure  to  end  the 
whole  business  with  that  yellow  target 
gleaming  there  invitingly.  The  willing 
bullet  sang  on  its  way.  There  was  a 
convulsive  leap  of  the  powerful  figure  on 
the  grass,  a  silence,  a  stiffening.  The 
golden  head,  red  now  and  matted  from 
the  swiftly  flowing  blood,  turned  a  little, 
then  buried  itself  more  deeply  in  the  dusty 
soil.  The  sharp-shooter  watched  it  closely, 
then  turned  to  other  prey  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction.  He  knew  the  signs.  Another 
American  officer  was  out  of  the  fight — out 
of  all  fights  for  all  time,  unless,  perhaps, 
74 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

somewhere  one  who  has  failed  here  is 
given  another  chance. 

The  desperately  fighting  regiment  push 
ed  doggedly  on,  the  rear  companies  work 
ing  like  demons  to  follow  their  comrades  to 
that  hill-top.  Men  and  officers  recognized 
the  recumbent  figure,  the  fair  head  resting 
in  the  dark  pool  that  told  the  story.  Even 
in  the  tigerish  excitement  of  the  hour  a 
lump  came  into  many  a  throat  at  the  sight, 
and  it  stung  to  added  fury  these  men  who 
had  not  seen  the  prologue  which  made  it 
so  much  more  a  tragedy  than  they  dream 
ed.  To  them  the  beloved  young  officer  had 
died  as  an  American  soldier  should,  fight 
ing  bravely  with  his  face  to  the  foe.  Some 
of  them  turned  aside  for  a  moment,  carried 
the  limp  figure  to  a  more  sheltered  place, 
covered  the  distorted  face  and  the  blood- 
dappled,  curly  head,  and  rushed  back  into 
the  fight  with  set  teeth  and  one  more  score 
to  settle. 

It  was  these  men  whom  the  newspaper 

correspondents   saw   that   night  after  the 

sun  had  gone  down  over  the  hill  where  so 

many  of  the  — th  Infantry  lay  dead  and 

75 


Tales  of  Destiny 

dying.  And  so,  in  the  brief  and  inac 
curate  reports,  sent  with  infinite  difficulty 
to  the  great  American  dailies,  the  name 
of  Ralston  stood  out  in  a  way  to  demand 
the  largest  type  the  editors  could  select  to 
do  honor  to  the  hero  dead.  Ralston  was 
only  one  of  the  many  brave  men  who  had 
fallen  that  day,  but  he  was  the  idol  of  his 
regiment — not  only  a  hero,  but  one  who 
lent  bravery  a  new  charm  by  the  insouci 
ance  of  a  courage  which  was  magnificent 
in  itself  —  Ralston,  the  gay,  the  blithe, 
the  debonair.  He  had  figured  in  prelim 
inary  despatches  that  told  of  his  strength, 
his  athletic  prowess,  his  influence  over 
the  men.  All  the  newspapers  had  his 
photograph  "in  stock/'  and  the  first  page 
of  every  "extra"  showed  his  winning 
face,  smiling  sunnily  within  the  black 
border  with  which  the  editors  had  deco 
rously  framed  it. 

By  the  time  the  enlightened  correspond 
ents  were  able  to  send  correct  reports, 
Ralston  was  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of 
his  countrymen  as  a  hero.  The  meagre 
despatches  from  the  front  had  been  skil- 
76 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

fully  padded  in  the  home  offices  of  the 
newspapers.  The  most  brilliant  writers 
of  the  staff  had  been  bidden  to  exercise 
their  imaginations  and  utmost  style  on 
this  fascinating  subject,  so  full  of  "tears" 
and  "human  interest."  In  the  editorial 
columns,  too,  there  were  lengthy  tributes 
to  Ralston,  "the  brilliant  and  striking 
ly  handsome  young  officer  who  lies  dead 
on  Cuban  soil,  but  whose  magnificent  bra 
very  in  action  has  stirred  the  pulse  of  all 
America." 

At  the  post,  anxious-eyed  women  whose 
husbands  lay  wounded  in  the  field  hos 
pitals  turned  from  the  contemplation  of 
their  own  trouble  to  read  those  extracts  to 
Mrs.  Ralston.  At  first  she  had  not  been 
able  to  bear  them.  She  had  gone  down 
before  the  blow  of  her  husband's  death  as 
a  prairie  -  flower  sinks  under  a  bronco's 
heel.  But  as  the  days  went  on  and  she 
began  to  realize  that  the  heart  of  her  coun 
try  was  yearning  over  her  in  her  sorrow, 
she  roused  from  her  stunned  apathy  and 
sought  to  demean  herself  as  behooves  a 
hero's  wife. 

77 


Tales   of  Destiny 

It  was  not  easy.  Glory  is  not  a  full 
offset  for  happiness  in  gentle  souls.  She 
had  never  been  well,  notwithstanding  her 
cheery  assumption  of  health;  but  she 
prayed  for  strength  to  go  through  what 
was  left  of  life  as  Herbert  would  have  her 
go.  She  would  live  for  others,  do  for 
others,  as  he  had  done.  She  would  make 
herself  worthy  of  him — of  this  magnificent 
being  who  had  been  given  to  the  world 
for  a  little  to  teach  her  the  meaning  of 
happiness,  and  to  show  men  how  to  live 
and  how  to  die. 

She  went  among  the  women  of  the  post, 
calming  the  frantic  fears  of  the  wives  of 
enlisted  men,  nursing  the  sick,  caring 
for  the  babies,  tiding  over  for  eve^  one 
the  bitter  days  and  nights  of  waiting  for 
official  lists  of  dead  and  wounded.  The 
slender  figure,  which  grew  pathetically 
thinner  from  day  to  day,  went  in  its  black 
gown  "along  the  line,"  bringing  comfort 
and  peace  in  its  wake.  Even  the  asser 
tive  lamentations  of  Mrs.  O'Grady  learned 
modesty  in  the  presence  of  the  brave  woman 
who  was  bearing  her  great  grief  so  ad- 
78 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

mirably.  But  something  in  her  expres 
sion  disturbed  these  friends,  slightly  skill 
ed  as  they  were  in  analyzing  expressions 
of  the  human  countenance.  She  looked 
"like  an  angel,"  as  Mrs.  O'Grady  said, 
but  her  color  was  too  feverishly  crimson, 
her  eyes  too  brilliant,  not  to  cause  anxiety 
in  those  who  loved  her.  Every  one  did, 
by  this  time — so  much  that  when  at  last 
the  long-looked-for  letters  came  and  the 
truth  about  Ralston 's  death  lay  coiled  in 
them,  there  was  a  hurried  conference  at  the 
post  and  a  decision  prompt  and  general. 
"She  must  never  know/'  said  Mrs. 
Holman,  with  nervous  emphasis.  "Colo 
nel  Holman  writes  me  that  the  corre 
spondents  have  decided  to  keep  the  matter 
quiet,  and  we  must  do  it,  too.  If  she  were 
to  find  it  out  the  shock  would  kill  her. 
Her  heart,  the  doctor  says,  is  very  delicate. 
All  that  sustains  her  is  the  thought  of  the 
courage  —  God  help  us! — with  which  he 
died.  When  the  regiment  comes  home 
she  may  be  stronger,  and  perhaps,  even 
then,  it  may  be  possible  to  keep  it  from 
her.  None  of  the  men  will  tell." 
79 


Tales  of  Destiny 

It  was  not  hard  to  keep  it  from  her.  She 
was  so  unsuspecting,  so  secure  in  her 
great  pride  and  faith.  If  her  friends  at 
the  post  talked  less  of  him,  she  talked 
more.  She  would  not  have  his  deeds 
forgotten  so  soon  while  she  had  a  tongue 
to  voice  them.  The  slight  constraint  with 
which  her  words  were  met  seemed  to  her 
a  little  touch  of  envy,  perhaps  felt  on  ac 
count  of  some  brave  fighter  whose  record 
had  not  met  so  prompt  and  complete  a 
recognition.  And  so  she  talked  to  Ser 
geant  O'Grady's  wife,  and  the  Irishwoman 
listened  with  bent  head  and  wet  eyes,  and 
replied  with  the  tact  and  sympathy  which 
women  of  higher  caste  could  scarce  have 
bettered.  It  was  not  easy  to  have  Mike 
deprived  of  any  particle  of  his  share  of 
honor  —  but  Mrs.  Ralston  was  speaking, 
and  Mrs.  Ralston  was  the  terribly  widowed 
charge  of  the  post. 

The  situation  when  the  regiment  came 
home  in  September  was  a  difficult  one. 
But  the  men  were  warned  by  their  wives, 
and  the  honest,  gallant  fellows  consented 
to  keep  the  secret.  She  was  the  bravest 
80 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

of  the  brave.  Why  kill  her  because  her 
husband  was  a  coward?  They  had 
dumped  Ralston  without  ceremony  into 
as  hastily  made  and  as  shallow  a  grave 
as  bare  humanity  would  permit.  It  was 
not  easy  to  give  a  dramatic  story  of  the 
burial,  but  they  did  it  somehow,  though 
they  could  not  meet  the  eyes  of  the  widow 
as  they  told  it  to  her.  As  the  days  passed, 
however,  and  they  saw  the  results  of  her 
ministrations  at  the  post  and  heard  of 
her  unselfish  efforts  to  help  their  wives 
and  families,  they  improved  in  their  irk 
some  role  of  lesser  comrades  of  a  dead 
hero.  Mrs.  Ralston  wanted  the  detailed 
account  of  every  look,  every  word,  every 
act  of  Herbert's,  and  they  gave  it  to  her 
with  what  generous  mendacity  they  could 
command. 

In  this  reminiscence  of  the  earlier  days 
at  the  front,  even  the  bitterness  against 
Ralston  himself  began  to  die  out.  It 
could  not  live  in  the  face  of  his  widow's 
beautiful  love  and  trust,  and  among  the 
thoughts  of  the  time  when  he  had  been  so 
dear  to  them  all.  Perhaps  it  had  been  in- 
e  81 


Tales  of  Destiny 

sanity — poor,  earth-born  servant  of  char 
ity!  But  the  delicate  shoots  of  pity  and 
regret  for  him,  that  began  to  push  up 
through  the  crust  of  contempt  which  had 
formed  about  his  memory,  were  chilled 
by  a  sudden  frost.  President  McKinley 
announced  that  the  bodies  of  American 
soldiers  would  be  brought  home  in  all 
cases  where  their  families  wished  this  to 
be  done.  Mrs.  Ralston  was  one  of  the 
first  to  act  upon  the  permission.  Her 
bert  should  lie  among  his  people,  be  laid 
in  his  glorious  grave  with  all  the  honors 
to  which  his  rank  and  heroic  death  en 
titled  him. 

The  decision  created  consternation  at 
the  post.  Men  who  had  until  now  aided 
the  kindly  deception,  announced  firmly  to 
their  wives  that  here  they  drew  the  line. 
Sergeant  O'Grady  was  especially  intol 
erant  on  this  point.  His  disgust  drove 
him  to  deep  potations.  The  result  of  this 
effort  to  quiet  his  desire  to  protest  was 
that  he  called  on  Mrs.  Ralston  with  the 
purpose  of  opening  her  eyes  a  little.  He  did. 

He  stumbled  home  afterwards  with  but 
82 


The  Wife  of  a  Hero 

little  understanding  of  what  he  had  done. 
When  morning  had  brought  sobriety  and 
reflection  he  tried  with  a  sick  heart  to  re 
call  the  interview.  He  could  not,  beyond  a 
general  conception  of  a  kind  of  nightmare 
in  which  two  terrified  brown  eyes  stared 
at  him  out  of  the  darkness.  One  thing 
she  said  penetrated  even  his  numbed  in 
telligence,  and  he  told  it  to  his  wife  in  the 
depth  of  his  contrition. 

"I  do  not  doubt  your  word,  sergeant," 
she  had  said.  "You  are  an  honest  and 
a  brave  man,  notwithstanding  the  condi 
tion  you  are  in  to-day,  and  I  know  you 
would  never  have  said  this  unless  you 
thought  it  true.  But  if  the  whole  regi 
ment,  the  entire  American  army,  told  me 
so  in  chorus,  I  would  not  believe  them 
any  more  than  I  do  you.  There  is  some 
thing  behind  it  all  that  we  do  not  under 
stand — something  which  some  day" — her 
voice  for  the  first  time  broke  a  little — "  my 
husband  will  explain  to  me." 

Mrs.  O'Grady  repeated  this  to  Mrs.  Hoi- 
man  the  next  morning  as  the  two  stood 
together  looking  at  Mrs.  Ralston.  The 
83 


Tales   of  Destiny 

Irishwoman  had  gone  to  her  after  the  ser 
geant's  conjugal  confession,  to  make  such 
explanations  and  apologies  as  she  could. 
She  had  found  her  sitting  at  her  desk, 
fully  dressed,  her  cold  fingers  grasping 
the  pen  with  which  she  had  begun  a  let 
ter  to  the  President.  She  had  been  dead 
many  hours.  Heart  disease,  the  doctor 
said,  and  he  added  with  wise  gravity  that 
probably  death  had  been  caused  by  some 
sudden  shock.  If  that  were  true,  there 
was  no  evidence  of  it  in  the  beautiful  face 
at  which  Mrs.  Holman  looked  through 
bitter  tears  when  she  came  in  answer  to 
their  agitated  summons.  Death  had  come 
to  Mrs.  Ralston  with  tender  courtesy  and 
she  had  received  him  with  a  smile  —  so 
serene,  so  sweet  a  smile,  that  one  look  at 
it  was  to  know  that  all  was  well  with  her. 

It  checked  Mrs.  Holman's  tears.  She 
bent  and  kissed  with  twitching  lips  the 
parting  in  the  soft,  dark  hair. 

"She  died  because  she  could  not  hear 
her  hero  wronged/'  she  said,  sadly.    "Now 
that  she  is  with  him — look  at  that  smile! 
He  may  be  her  hero  still." 
84 


Victoria  Delsaro,  Missing 


Victoria  Delsaro,  Missing 


IISS  VICTORIA  DELSARO 
was  wont  to  remark  in  mo 
ments  of  extreme  bitterness 
that  in  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Manhattan  there 
was  no  one  so  persistently  and  unscrupu 
lously  made  use  of  by  friends  and  ac 
quaintances  as  herself. 

It  was  natural  that  this  reflection  should 
occur  to  her.  Being  a  young  and  not  es 
pecially  attractive  woman,  with  two  mill 
ion  dollars  and  no  incumbrances,  she  was 
regarded  as  a  source  of  income  by  a  sur 
prisingly  large  number  of  persons.  In 
the  beginning,  when  she  had  attained  her 
majority  and  her  fortune,  and  her  guard 
ian  had  stepped  aside  with  a  suave  fare 
well  and  a  few  words  of  conventional  but 
87 


Tales  of  Destiny 

well-meant  advice,  she  had  rather  enjoyed 
the  role  of  Lady  Bountiful  which  was  im 
mediately  assigned  her.  She  was  natural 
ly  generous,  and  she  liked  to  make  peo 
ple  happy.  Her  desire  had  full  scope,  and 
two  or  three  very  busy,  rather  educative, 
and  distinctly  expensive  years  had  passed 
before  she  began  to  analyze  the  effect  of 
lavish  giving  on  the  subjects  of  her  bounty 
and  herself.  Several  "disappointments" 
had,  of  course,  been  sufficiently  deep  to  de 
mand  her  attention,  but  she  had  waived 
these  lightly  enough,  and  had  refused  to 
consider  them  as  having  any  bearing  on 
her  future  actions.  Still,  when  disap 
pointments  ceased  to  be  conspicuous  be 
cause  they  became  the  rule  rather  than 
the  exception,  the  thoughtful  mind  of  Miss 
Delsaro,  surprisingly  mature  even  then, 
took  up  the  problem  this  fact  presented, 
and  considered  it  while  she  went  on  in 
her  chosen  course. 

Gratitude,    she   decided,    was   a    sensa 
tion  that  had  no  home  in  the  breasts  of 
her   protege's.     Not   even   the   stimulating 
expectation    of    coming    favors    developed 
88 


Victoria  Delsaro,  Missing 

a  present  sense  of  appreciation.  She  dis 
covered — very  slowly,  for  all  this  was  a 
matter  of  years  and  evolution  —  that  it 
was  considered  almost  a  kindness  to  her 
to  permit  her  to  occupy  her  mind  with 
and  expend  some  of  her  great  wealth  on 
"worthy  objects. " 

"It  is  a  fad  with  her,  you  see,"  one  of 
her  dear  girls  had  explained,  in  cheerful 
ignorance  of  the  fact  that  Miss  Delsaro 
was  within  hearing.  "She  likes  to  find 
clever  people  and  get  the  credit  of  their 
training  and  future  success.  When  I  go 
into  opera,  of  course  she'll  boast  that  she 
discovered  me,  sent  me  abroad,  and  paid 
my  expenses,  but " — this  very  magnani 
mously — "I  shall  not  mind." 

Miss  Delsaro  did  not  mind,  either,  in 
this  case,  for  the  refreshing  egotism  of 
youth  and  talent  was  back  of  it.  The  girl 
was  at  least  studying  and  profiting  by 
her  advantages,  which  could  not  be  said  of 
all  of  Miss  Delsaro's  "  finds."  She  learned 
to  give  with  good-natured  indifference  to 
the  absence  of  gratitude,  finding  her  re 
ward  in  other  results,  and  in  the  fact  that 


Tales   of  Destiny 

she  was  presenting  to  the  world  many 
artists  and  singers  whose  talents,  but  for 
her,  might  have  perished  obscurely.  She 
was,  she  knew,  not  alone  in  her  experience, 
but  her  comparative  youth,  her  freedom 
from  all  restraint,  and  her  great  wealth 
made  her,  as  she  said,  "a  chronic  victim 
of  the  undeserving  poor." 

It  was  natural  that  after  five  or  six  years 
of  this  she  should  learn  to  look  with  some 
what  jaundiced  eyes  upon  a  greedy  world. 
It  was  perhaps  natural,  too,  that  when 
greed  had  in  several  instances  manifested 
itself  acutely  within  the  circle  of  her  closest 
friends,  she  should  magnify  the  impor 
tance  of  the  incidents  and  necessarily  con 
clude  that  here,  too,  lay  coiled  the  serpent 
of  guile.  Nevertheless,  she  was  at  heart 
a  sane  woman,  with  a  well-balanced  mind 
and  an  inheritance  of  common-sense  from 
her  eminently  practical  and  successful  fa 
ther.  She  might  have  forgiven  and  for 
gotten  the  friends  who  had  so  skilfully 
used  her  for  their  own  purposes,  had  not 
the  One  Man  appeared  precisely  at  this 
juncture  and  furnished  her  with  the  final 
90 


Victoria   Delsaro,  Missing 

and  pitiless  lesson  fate  intended  her  to 
learn. 

The  One  Man  was  singularly  attractive. 
His  handsome  eyes  had  a  merry  twinkle 
as  he  looked  at  life's  play,  and  he  found 
special  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Delsaro. 
She  liked  his  optimistic  point  of  view,  his 
lack  of  the  tact  and  suave  policy  of  other 
men  in  her  circle,  his  apparent  indiffer 
ence  to  wealth,  society,  and  high  places. 

"He  is  merely  a  great  big  happy  boy/' 
she  reflected,  as  she  watched  him  play 
tennis  one  afternoon  at  the  Country  Club. 
He  had  hurled  himself  into  the  game  with 
the  zest  of  a  school-boy,  and  his  crisp,  fair 
curls  were  damp  from  the  energy  of  his 
play.  Under  his  small  mustache  his  white 
teeth  flashed  as  he  smiled  at  his  oppo 
nent,  and  his  movements  were  as  light 
and  graceful  as  those  of  a  trained  athlete. 
Victoria  Delsaro  studied  the  picture  with 
a  satisfaction  she  conscientiously  strove  to 
analyze. 

"He  is  merely  a  boy/'  she  thought 
again;  "thirty-four  years  of  life  have  not 
made  him  a  man,  and  thirty-four  more 


Tales  of  Destiny 

will  not  do  it.  He  is  as  irresponsible  and 
as  care -free  as  a  fawn.  His  income  is 
large  enough  to  live  on  comfortably,  and 
he  will  never  add  to  it  by  a  penny  earned. 
He  cultivates  the  people  he  likes,  shuns 
the  people  he  doesn't  like,  no  matter  what 
they  could  do  for  him  in  a  worldly  way, 
pursues  pleasure,  carefully  avoids  pain, 
is  supremely  selfish  and  absolutely  hon 
est — the  darling!" 

The  last  words  flew  from  her  brain  to 
her  lips,  but  no  one  heard  them — not  even 
the  One  Man,  who  suddenly  presented 
himself  before  her,  wiping  his  damp  brow, 
and  blithely  indifferent  to  the  informality 
of  his  attire. 

"  May  I  drive  home  with  you  after  I've 
gotten  into  things,  and  have  some  tea?"  he 
asked,  eagerly.  "  I've  something  I  want  to 
tell  you." 

Miss  Delsaro  gave  him  a  smile  which 
proved  that  something  pleasant  can  hap 
pen  to  a  dark  and  rather  heavy  face.  She 
felt  the  weight  of  her  thirty-six  years  drop 
from  her  under  the  influence  of  his  radiant 
youth. 

92 


Victoria  Delsaro,   Missing 

"Can  you  be  ready  in  twenty  minutes?" 
she  asked.  "I  am  to  take  Mrs.  Allen 
home,  and  she  is  leaving  at  five." 

He  assured  her  that  he  could.  "Ill 
be  dressed  in  ten/'  he  laughed.  "And 
then  I  shall  come  out  here  and  sit  around 
and  say  things  in  your  hearing  about 
women  who  delay  men  with  important 
matters  on  their  minds." 

He  hurried  away  as  he  spoke.  Miss 
Delsaro  rose  from  her  place  among  the 
spectators  and  wandered  leisurely  across 
the  grounds  and  up  the  steps  leading  to 
the  cool  veranda  of  the  Country  Club.  She 
told  herself  that  she  would  send  some  one 
in  search  of  her  coachman.  In  reality, 
as  she  well  knew,  she  longed  to  sit  in 
a  cool,  deserted  corner  and  think,  and 
smile  inanely  to  herself  with  no  one  near 
to  see  it.  For  Miss  Delsaro  was  in 
love! 

She  was  recalling  every  look  and  feature 
of  the  One  Man  when  steps  echoed  round 
the  corner  of  the  veranda,  chairs  scraped 
the  floor,  and  the  voices  of  two  men  reached 
her.  They  had  taken  seats  out  of  sight,  but 
93 


Tales   of  Destiny 

unfortunately  not  out  of  hearing.  She 
knew  the  voices  well. 

"So  Harrington's  going  into  the  new 
trust,  too,  is  he?"  asked  the  first  voice. 
It  belonged  to  the  stout  and  wholly  ami 
able  president  of  the  club. 

Miss  Delsaro  unconsciously  pricked  up 
her  ears.  Harrington  was  the  One  Man. 

"Yes,"  said  the  second  voice,  that 
of  Tompkins,  the  multi-millionaire.  "He 
wants  to  come  in,  but  we're  not  going 
into  that  for  our  health,  and  I  told  him  it 
would  cost  him  a  cool  half-million.  He 
knows  it's  the  chance  of  his  life,  and  he'll 
take  it,  with  Miss  Delsaro  thrown  in. 
She'll  accept  him  at  the  drop  of  the  hat — 
every  one  knows  that — and  as  the  deal 
doesn't  go  through  till  fall  he  can  get  her 
to  cash  up  in  time." 

The  president  moved  restlessly  in  his 
chair. 

"I  didn't  suppose  he  cared  for  her,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "I  imagined  he  didn't  care 
for  anybody,  the  selfish  young  pup." 

There  was  an  instant  of  silence.  While 
it  endured,  Victoria  Delsaro  pictured  to 
94 


Victoria  Delsaro,   Missing 

herself  very  accurately  the  look  of  su 
preme  scorn  the  financier  turned  on  the 
president,  and  the  length  of  time  before 
he  spoke  showed  he  got  the  full  enjoy 
ment  of  letting  it  sink  in. 

"Harrington  wants  the  money,"  he 
said,  dryly.  "  I  thought  I  mentioned  that. 
He's  very  ambitious  under  that  irrespon 
sible,  play-boy  jollity  of  his." 

Miss  Delsaro  did  not  wait  for  the  presi 
dent's  reply,  nor  did  she  draw  her  breath 
too  sharply.  She  walked  quite  with  her 
wonted  air  into  the  club-house,  gave  her 
order  to  a  servant,  and  descended  the  steps 
when  her  carriage  arrived,  her  dark  head 
high  and  an  enigmatic  expression  in  her 
eyes.  Harrington  was  waiting,  and  Mrs. 
Allen  was  not  far  off.  She  motioned  to 
them  rather  curtly.  Mrs.  Allen  took  her 
place  with  a  depressing  sense  that  one  of 
Victoria's  moods  was  also  a  guest  of  the 
day.  Harrington,  sitting  in  front,  wheeled 
half  round  and  poured  forth  a  cheery 
monologue.  If  he  observed  Miss  Delsaro's 
reticence  at  all,  he  ascribed  it  to  natural 
modesty  over  the  coming  interview. 
95 


Tales    of  Destiny 

They  deposited  the  relieved  Mrs.  Allen 
before  her  own  mansion  and  went  on. 
On  Harrington's  smooth  face  a  slight 
shadow  was  gathering  —  a  reflection,  per 
haps,  of  the  heavy  cloud  resting  on  his 
lady's  brow.  It  was  growing  late.  Be 
fore  them  a  declining  sun  was  painting 
the  water  and  the  sky  in  tones  of  gold  and 
crimson. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  walk?"  asked 
Harrington,  suddenly.  "  Why  not  let  the 
coachman  go  on,  and  we  can  follow  slowly 
and  enjoy  that. "  He  indicated  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  the  gorgeous  panorama  before 
them. 

Miss  Delsaro  gave  the  order.  "Better 
have  the  farce  over,"  she  decided,  "than 
prolong  this  agony  of  anticipation." 

Harrington  scrutinized  her  curiously  as 
they  fell  into  step. 

"You  look,"  he  said,  "as  if  somebody 
had  offended  you.  I  hope  it  is  not  I.  If  I 
have,  it  is  the  bitter  irony  of  fate.  For  I 
came  with  you  to-night  to  ask  the  greatest 
of  favors.  I  want  everything  from  your 
hands — I  want  you." 
96 


Victoria   Delsaro,   Missing 

Under  the  circumstances,  it  was  badly 
put.  Miss  Delsaro  turned  white. 

"And  the  half  -  million?"  she  asked, 
harshly.  "That,  I  understand,  may  wait 
until  fall." 

He  stopped  sharply,  faced  her,  and  looked 
into  her  eyes  for  a  long  minute.  She  re 
turned  the  gaze  steadily,  showing  in  her 
own  eyes  the  scorn  she  felt. 

"Some  enemy  of  mine — "  he  began. 

"Oh  no/'  she  said,  lightly,  "a  friend 
— your  future  partner,  in  fact.  Mr.  Tomp- 
kins  confided  all  your  hopes  and  prospects 
to  Mr.  Hamilton  on  the  club  veranda  this 
afternoon,  and  I  necessarily  overheard  him. 
He  did  not  know  that,  or  he  might  have 
shown  a  more  delicate  reserve." 

Harrington  lifted  his  head,  resumed  his 
place  by  her  side  and  walked  on. 

"When  you  interrupted  me,"  he  said, 
"I  was  about  to  add  an  explanation  to 
my  proposal.  I  was  going  to  say  that  I 
don't  amount  to  much — which  I  need  not 
say  now,  in  view  of  your  recent  discovery. 
But  I  am  not  a  mere  fortune  -  hunter.  I 
have  some  money  of  my  own ;  quite  a  good 
7  97 


Tales   of  Destiny 

deal.  If  you  had  married  me  you  would  not 
have  had  to  support  me.  I  should  certainly 
have  asked  you  for  that  half-million,  but 
you  know  Tompkins,  and  you  must  realize 
how  safe  and  good  an  investment  it  would 
have  been.  It  would  have  made  me  a 
rich  man,  and,  so  to  speak,  in  your  class. 
You  would  have  lost  nothing.  I  love  no 
other  woman.  There  is  no  woman  in  the 
world  who  has  a  claim  on  me — and  I  was 
offering  you  a  good  name  and  a  clean 
record.  I  think,"  he  added,  naively,  "we 
should  have  been  very  comfortable  together. ' ' 

Miss  Delsaro's  severe  brows  formed  a 
straight  line. 

"I  disagree  writh  you,"  she  said,  briefly. 
"If  you  consider  that  you  have  proposed, 
you  may  consider  that  I  have  refused." 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to  say, 
and  Harrington  walked  on  beside  her  in 
a  depressed  silence.  The  coachman,  full 
of  a  lively  appreciation  of  the  situation  as 
he  conceived  it,  had  driven  rapidly  and 
was  out  of  sight.  There  was  a  constrained 
parting  at  the  entrance  of  Miss  Delsaro's 
country  house. 

98 


Victoria   Delsaro,  Missing 

The  next  day  she  went  back  to  town, 
engaged  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  Fifth  Avenue 
hotel,  and  gave  out  that  she  was  soon 
going  abroad. 

"What  I  should  like  to  do,"  she  con 
fided  to  her  one  confidante,  a  delightfully 
worldly  but  unspoiled  spinster  of  forty — 
"  what  I  should  like  to  do  is  to  drop  abso 
lutely  out  of  sight  for  a  year  or  two.  If  I 
could,  I  would  disappear  to-morrow  and 
begin  a  new  life  in  a  new  land  and  under 
a  new  name." 

Miss  Van  Dorn  laughed  quietly. 

'Too  sensational,"  she  said,  tersely. 
'The  yellow  journals  would  trace  you  to 
the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  the  Sun 
day  after  the  discovery  they'd  have  page 
pictures  in  red,  green,  and  purple,  show 
ing  you  trying  to  jump  off  the  earth's  sur 
face.  Really,  you'll  have  to  give  it  up, 
dear." 

She  looked  at  her  friend  with  real  sym 
pathy  as  she  spoke.  In  her  mind  there 
was  a  shrewd  conjecture  as  to  the  reason 
for  this  sudden  restlessness. 

Victoria  Delsaro  said  no  more,  but  the 
99 


Tales  of  Destiny 

words  she  had  spoken  carelessly  and  with 
out  thought  had  in  them  the  germ  of  an 
idea  which  grew.  It  was  one  of  her  fads 
to  carry  a  large  amount  of  money  in  a 
small  bag  she  wore  around  her  neck. 

"One  can  never  tell  when  my  friends 
may  need  it/'  she  had  said,  ironically. 
Now  she  began  to  add  to  this  fund.  In 
the  back  of  her  brain  there  lurked  the 
thought,  never  again  expressed,  that  some 
day  she  would  step  on  a  train  for  San 
Francisco,  and  sail  from  California  to  the 
Orient  without  the  idle  ceremony  of  fare 
wells. 

"They'll  say  I'm  crazy,"  she  reflected, 
"but  I  cannot  fancy  anything  on  earth 
that  is  of  less  importance  to  me  than  what 
they  say/' 

Her  subconscious  thoughts  were  run 
ning  in  this  channel  one  afternoon  as  she 
walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  to  her  hotel.  At 
Fortieth  Street  she  became  vaguely  aware 
of  the  presence  of  a  crowd,  and,  self-ab 
sorbed  though  she  was,  she  felt  the  tense 
excitement  of  men  and  women  who  surged 
past  her,  bent  apparently  towards  one 
100 


Victoria  Delsaro,  Missing 

objective  point.  Farther  up  the  avenue 
a  yellow  flame  leaped  into  the  sky,  and 
at  the  same  moment  the  shrill,  warning 
scream  of  fire-engines  rang  in  her  ears. 
Close  upon  the  echo  of  this  came  the  tu 
mult  of  the  approaching  trucks  and  the 
wild  hoof -beats  of  flying  horses.  Men 
and  women  took  refuge  on  the  steps  lead 
ing  to  residences,  in  their  efforts  to  avoid 
the  horses  driven  to  the  curb  and  on  the 
sidewalks  by  excited  drivers  striving  to 
make  way  for  the  engines.  Miss  Delsaro 
fell  back  with  the  rest  against  the  in 
hospitable  stone. 

"It's  the  Winfield  Hotel/'  she  heard  a 
man  cry.  "  It's  burning  down,  and  hun 
dreds  of  people  in  it  are  burning  to  death." 

The  clang  of  ambulance  bells  lent  a 
dread  emphasis  to  the  statement.  Swing 
ing  round  the  corners  from  east  and  west 
came  the  frenzied  horses,  lashed  by  their 
drivers,  while  trim  surgeons  in  spotless 
white  duck  uniforms  made  hurried  prepa 
rations  for  patients.  Miss  Delsaro  looked 
on,  sick  at  heart,  and  with  straining  eyes. 
Her  hotel  was  burning  down  —  her  ac- 
101 


Tales   of  Destiny 

quaintances  in  it  were  perhaps  among 
the  victims.  She  tried  to  move  forward, 
but  her  trembling  legs  refused  to  carry 
her,  and  the  rapidly  increasing  crowd 
held  her  a  prisoner.  To  go  farther  up 
the  avenue  was  impossible.  She  succeeded 
in  pushing  her  way  back  to  the  corner, 
and  forcing  a  path  through  the  crowd  in 
the  side  streets.  She  was  terribly  ex 
cited.  Strange  noises  rang  in  her  ears, 
and  she  felt  herself  shivering.  She  had 
a  childlike  longing  for  the  sound  of  a  fa 
miliar  voice,  for  the  touch  of  a  friendly 
hand.  Instinctively  she  directed  her  steps 
towards  Miss  Van  Dorn's  home,  only  a 
few  blocks  away.  Suddenly  a  thought 
flashed  into  her  mind  as  vivid  in  its  im 
pression  as  if  it  had  been  written  and  held 
before  her  eyes.  For  one  moment  she 
hesitated.  Then,  with  a  characteristically 
quick  movement  of  decision,  she  walked  over 
to  Third  Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street 
and  took  an  elevated  train  for  South  Ferry. 

One   week   later    Miss    Delsaro,    tucked 
in  a  steamer-chair  and  cosily  wrapped  in 
102 


Victoria  Delsaro,    Missing 

rugs  by  an  attentive  steward,  watched 
the  California  coast  recede  into  the  dis 
tance  as  the  great  liner  cut  its  way  tow 
ards  Yokohama. 

The  rush  of  departure  and  the  numer 
ous  small  details  needing  her  attention 
had  so  occupied  her  mind  that  in  all  those 
seven  days  she  had  not  really  faced  the 
fact  of  the  exceedingly  vital  step  she  had 
taken.  She  had  not  looked  at  a  news 
paper  until  she  reached  San  Francisco; 
then  she  had  read  with  entire  calmness 
her  own  name  among  the  long  list  of  vic 
tims  of  the  Hotel  Winfield  fire.  There  had 
been  a  good  deal  of  "  fine  writing  "  on  the 
subject  of  the  dead  heiress  and  much 
speculation  as  to  the  division  of  her  great 
fortune,  for  she  had  no  relatives,  and,  so 
far  as  was  known,  had  left  no  will.  Miss 
Delsaro  postponed  the  reading  of  these 
details  until  she  was  safely  away  from 
America.  She  had  experienced,  during 
those  last  days  in  her  native  land,  almost 
the  sensation  of  an  outlaw  fleeing  from 
justice.  She  was  desperately  afraid  of 
being  caught!  Without  too  much  thought 
103 


Tales  of  Destiny 

or  secrecy  she  had,  in  a  way,  disguised 
herself.  She  scorned  any  facial  change, 
but  few  would  have  recognized  the  ele 
gant  Miss  Delsaro  in  the  very  plainly 
dressed  and  rather  dumpy  woman  who 
went  on  board  the  City  of  Peking  just  be 
fore  it  sailed.  She  had  arranged  her  hair 
in  a  severely  simple  fashion,  and  her  gowns 
were  of  the  ready-to-wear  variety.  She 
might  have  been  a  companion  or  governess 
going  to  the  other  side  of  the  world  to  join 
her  employers.  But  rolled  up  among  her 
rugs  were  several  newspapers,  full  of  the 
harrowing  details  of  her  last  hours,  whose 
scenes  no  one  had  witnessed  but  all  had 
imagined,  and  it  was  these  newspapers 
Miss  Delsaro  unfolded  before  the  Cali 
fornia  coast  was  two  hours  behind  her. 
The  cool  audacity  of  the  act  would  carry 
it,  she  reflected.  No  one  would  see  in  her 
the  dead  heiress  to  millions.  She  must 
take  chances  in  this  enterprise.  If  she 
were  recognized,  her  plans  must  fall 
through.  If  not,  it  would  be  another 
proof  that  the  gods  were  with  her  in  her 
new  life. 

104 


Victoria  Delsaro,   Missing 

Nevertheless,  as  she  read  the  journal 
istic  accounts  of  the  Winfield  victims, 
strange  sensations  visited  her  soul.  She 
herself,  she  read,  had  not  been  seen  to 
leave  the  hotel  the  day  of  the  fire.  Her 
maid,  the  only  servant  with  her  at  the 
hotel,  had  asked  and  secured  leave  of  ab 
sence  for  the  day,  and  had  left  the  hotel 
early  in  the  morning  to  visit  relatives  in 
New  Jersey.  Miss  Delsaro  was  seen  in 
her  rooms  after  luncheon  by  a  servant 
who  answered  her  bell  and  delivered  a 
note  she  gave  him.  Not  one  of  her  friends 
had  seen  her  alive  after  that,  but  some 
one  had  seen  her,  he  thought,  at  the  win 
dow  during  the  fire;  and  the  next  day, 
among  the  charred  bones  found  in  the 
ruins  was  a  hand  to  which  still  clung 
a  ring  recognized  as  one  Miss  Delsaro 
often  wore. 

The  heart  of  the  woman  in  the  steamer- 
chair  contracted.  She  had  given  that 
ring,  only  the  day  before  the  fire,  to  Lettie 
Ormsbee,  who  lived  with  her  mother  in 
the  hotel.  They  had  been  Miss  Delsaro's 
best  friends  there,  and  she  had  loved  the 
105 


Tales   of  Destiny 

girl  dearly.  Both  mother  and  daughter 
were  among  the  dead.  Dear  little  Lettie! 
Where  was  she?  And  she  herself — Vic 
toria  Delsaro?  Was  this  whole  experi 
ence  a  horrible  nightmare?  It  began  to 
seem  like  one  to  the  woman  who  had 
voluntarily  given  up  identity  and  her 
place  among  the  living.  Her  nerves, 
strained  by  the  crowding  episodes  of  the 
week,  revolted  fiercely.  For  an  awful 
moment  she  doubted  her  sanity,  her  very 
existence.  Back  there  lay  her  native  land 
— the  land  she  loved,  for  she  was  a  loyal 
American.  Back  there,  too,  were  wealth 
and  luxury  and  many  friends  who  loved 
her,  and  many  others  who  needed  her. 
She  had  forgotten  them.  She  had  given  no 
thought,  either,  to  those  proteges  of  hers, 
helpless  in  distant  lands  if  her  bounty 
failed  them.  She  had  turned  from  all 
that  was  hers  and  from  all  she  had  been 
— for  what?  She  tried  to  pull  herself 
together  and  answer  the  question  reso 
lutely.  For  individuality,  for  freedom — 
for  the  privilege  of  living  her  life  as  she 
pleased  and  of  being  weighed  by  the  stand- 
106 


Victoria  Delsaro,   Missing 

ards  of  other  men  and  women.  She 
would  drift  round  the  world  under  the  new 
name  she  had  assumed,  avoiding,  for  a 
time  at  least,  the  beaten  paths  of  travel. 
She  would  study  the  men  and  women  who 
made  up  the  average  of  humanity,  and 
she  would  find  friends  among  them.  She 
would  earn  her  living  when  her  money 
gave  out  and  it  became  necessary — she 
felt  that  she  could  do  so  and  enjoy  the 
work.  But  suddenly  the  great  ship  and 
its  surroundings  of  brilliant  sunshine  and 
white -capped  waves  faded  away.  The 
voices  of  the  passengers  chatting  on  deck 
became  inaudible.  A  great  wave  of  black 
ness,  silence,  and  despair  settled  over  her 
soul,  and  an  unreasoning  terror,  none  the 
less  acute  because  unreasoning,  gripped 
her.  Not  one  human  being  who  knew 
her  knew  that  she  was  alive.  She  had 
no  right  on  earth.  Her  place  was  with 
the  dead.  Horrible  pictures  printed  them 
selves  on  her  brain,  morbid  messages 
seemed  entering  her  ears.  She  turned 
with  swift  despair  to  the  woman  who  sat, 
half  dozing,  in  the  steamer  -  chair  next  to 
107 


Tales   of  Destiny 

her  own.  She  was  a  pleasant  neighbor, 
this  woman,  with  white  hair  and  kind 
eyes.  Victoria  Delsaro,  the  haughty  and 
dignified  woman  of  the  past  merged  whol 
ly  into  the  terrified  woman  of  the  present, 
caught  her  fiercely  by  the  arm. 

"For  Heaven's  sake/'  she  said,  "say 
something  to  me!  Divert  my  mind!  I'm 
—  I'm  —  so  hideously,  so  appallingly 
lonely!" 

Eight  years  later  Miss  Helen  Van  Dorn, 
of  New  York,  made  her  second  trip  to  Japan. 
She  had  gone  once  before  at  thirty,  and 
had  loved  the  country.  She  wondered 
now,  finding  herself  again  among  its 
admirable  toy -houses  and  flowers,  why 
she  had  waited  all  these  years  to  come  a 
second  time.  Her  first  visit  had  been 
with  Victoria  Delsaro — poor  Victoria !  Miss 
Van  Dorn  had  suffered  various  losses  in 
life,  not  the  least  of  them  that  of  this  friend. 
Even  yet,  she  did  not  let  her  mind  dwell 
on  the  tragedies  of  the  Winfield  fire.  But 
this  day  thoughts  of  Victoria  persistently 
obtruded  themselves.  There  were  mem- 
108 


Victoria   Delsaro,  Missing 

ories  of  her  on  every  side  in  this  quaint 
and  distant  land.  That  tiny  house,  wis 
teria-covered  and  almost  lost  in  a  small 
forest  of  roses  and  camellias,  was  like  the 
one  in  which  she  and  Victoria  had  ex 
perienced  two  months  of  the  joys  of  Jap 
anese  house-keeping,  with  nine  servants 
and  in  four  rooms.  She  recalled  the  tragic 
comedy  of  their  first  bath,  the  party  they 
gave  for  little  Madame  Hekayamagi,  the 
dinner  at  the  home  of  the  first  lady  of  the 
village — how  Victoria  had  enjoyed  it  all, 
and  how  different  she  had  seemed  from 
the  woman  of  after-years  —  the  Victoria 
who  had  turned  morbid,  suspicious,  and 
hyperanalytic. 

Miss  Van  Dorn  was  so  full  of  these 
thoughts  that  she  did  not  at  first  see  a 
woman  who  had  come  out  of  the  door  of 
the  house,  and,  sheltering  her  eyes  with 
her  hands,  was  looking  down  a  winding 
road  fringed  with  low  Japanese  pines. 
It  was  the  unusual  gesture  that  attracted 
Miss  Van  Dorn's  attention.  She  looked, 
and  then  looked  again  with  deeper  interest. 
The  woman  was  white,  and  evidently  a 
109 


Tales  of  Destiny 

lady.  She  was  well  but  plainly  drevSsed, 
and  her  movements  were  quick  and  grace 
ful.  There  was,  even  in  the  three-quarter 
view  she  obtained,  something  strangely 
familiar  in  the  outlines  of  the  figure  and 
profile.  Helen  Van  Dorn  stared,  winked 
a  little,  stared  again,  took  four  strides 
forward,  and  caught  the  woman  by  both 
hands. 

"  Victoria ! ' '  she  gasped.  "  Victoria  Delsa- 
ro!"  Her  voice  trembled  and  tears  gushed 
from  the  sharp  eyes  behind  her  glasses. 

"I've  always  had,  deep  down,  some 
where,  a  hope — a  blessed  little  hope — that 
I  would  some  day  find  you,"  she  said. 

The  other  woman  hesitated,  flushed, 
paled,  and  then  laughed.  There  was  no  re 
sisting  the  tremor  in  her  friend's  voice,  nor 
those  most  unusual  tears  in  her  friend's 
keen  eyes. 

"Dear  Helen,"  she  said,  "what  an  ap 
parition  you  are — out  of  that  old,  almost 
forgotten  life  of  mine." 

"I'm  coming  in,"  announced  Miss  Van 
Dorn,  breathlessly.  "I'm  coming  in  to 
talk  to  you." 

no 


Victoria   Delsaro,   Missing 

Victoria  slipped  her  arm  round  her  waist 
in  a  gesture  that  recalled  the  days  of  their 
girlhood. 

"It's  nicer  out  here/'  she  said.  "Later 
I  wish  you  to  come  in,  for  I  have  some 
thing  to  show  you.  She  blushed  a  little. 
"I'm  Victoria  still,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile,  "but  not  Victoria  Delsaro." 

She  swung  her  friend  down  on  a  low 
bench  framed  in  flowers,  and  took  a  place 
beside  her. 

"Never  mind  me,"  she  said,  lightly. 
"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  myself  later.  Tell 
me  about  yourself  and  New  York." 

Miss  Van  Dorn  plunged  into  her  reci 
tal.  News  of  men  and  women,  music,  lit 
erature,  politics,  society  gossip,  dropped 
from  the  end  of  her  clever  tongue  in  a 
monologic  bridging  of  eight  years.  Then 
she  faced  her  friend  squarely,  with  the 
high  courage  of  her  Dutch  ancestry. 

"You  must  come  back  to  it  all,  Vic 
toria,"  she  said,  resolutely.  "You  must 
drop  this  farce,  so  unworthy  of  you,  and 
return  to  your  own  country  and  your  old 
friends.  Your  wealth  is  still  yours  —  for 
in 


Tales  of  Destiny 

that  myth  of  a  cousin  of  yours  has  nev 
er  been  found,  although  every  effort  has 
been  made  to  trace  him.  Come  back  and 
claim  your  own.  Come  back  to  life  and 
friends  and  civilization  and  luxury  and 
love." 

The  other  woman  had  been  watching 
her  speculatively  as  she  spoke.  It  was 
impossible  to  read  what  she  felt  in  her 
serene  face,  but  under  this  cool  composure 
a  conflict  was  raging.  She  drew  a  long 
breath.  A  wave  of  memory  rolled  over 
her,  drenching  her  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  past.  Civilization,  luxury,  beauty, 
wealth,  and  all  that  these  things  implied, 
seemed  to  call  to  her  across  the  sea  from 
her  native  land.  The  heavy  odor  of  the 
tropical  flowers  around  nauseated  her,  and 
she  turned  with  a  quick  distaste  from  the 
grotesque,  familiar  little  figures  that  bobbed 
an  evening  salutation  to  her  as  they  passed. 
They  seemed  not  men,  but  dolls,  and  their 
country  in  that  instant  of  revolt  seemed  a 
dolls'  land,  fit  only  for  toy  men  and  women. 
Through  the  open  windows  of  the  next 
house  came  the  soft  twang  of  the  samisen, 
112 


Victoria    Delsaro,   Missing 

like  a  fitting  undertone  of  her  own  sudden 
nostalgia. 

Then,  suddenly,  far  down  the  road  that 
fronted  them,  she  saw  coming  towards 
her  a  man.  It  was  a  white  man  —  an 
Englishman,  apparently,  strong,  resolute, 
good-looking,  and  with  a  slight  stoop  to 
his  broad  shoulders.  Miss  Van  Dorn  saw 
him  at  the  same  moment,  and  a  sudden 
intuition  made  her  look  with  close  interest. 
He  was,  she  noticed,  simply  dressed,  but 
he  radiated  the  exquisite  physical  whole- 
someness  of  his  race.  He  was  evidently 
a  book-keeper  or  accountant  in  some  Jap 
anese  business  house  with  English  in 
terests.  As  he  drew  near  he  caught  his 
wife's  eye,  and  there  passed  between  the 
two  a  look  of  such  perfect  love  and  under 
standing  that  Miss  Van  Dorn  instinctively 
dropped  her  eyes  before  it.  She  had  seen 
it  only  once  or  twice  in  all  her  eventful 
life,  but  it  was  something  no  human  being 
could  mistake. 

At  the  same  moment,  as  if  drawn  by  a 
magnet,  a  deliciously  roly-poly  baby  tod 
dled  out  of  the  door,  adoringly  followed 
8  113 


Tales   of  Destiny 

by  a  Japanese  nurse.  It  was  a  little  boy, 
with  his  mother's  dark  eyes  and  the  Eng 
lishman's  fair  curls,  and  with  a  marked 
unsteadiness  of  gait,  for  he  was  just  learn 
ing  to  walk.  He  lurched  down  the  road 
towards  his  father  with  a  triumphant 
crow  that  carried  far  in  the  perfumed  si 
lence  of  the  evening. 

The  woman  who  had  been  Victoria 
Delsaro  turned  on  her  old  friend  a  trans 
figured  face.  All  the  triumph  of  happy 
wifehood  and  adoring  motherhood  was  there, 
together  with  a  sweet  humility  that  seemed 
strange  to  one  who  had  known  her  in  the  past. 

She  took  Miss  Van  Dorn's  thin  shoulders 
in  her  strong,  brown  hands  and  looked 
at  her  affectionately. 

"Come,  Helen/'  she  said,  lightly,  "and 
meet  my  husband  and  my  son.  But  mind, 
no  word  of  my  past,  for  my  husband  knows 
nothing  of  it  and  he  never  shall.  He 
may  not  seem  much  to  you,  but  he's  the 
man  I've  travelled  this  earth  over  to  find, 
and  he  has  given  me  the  greatest  happi 
ness  I  have  ever  known.  I  shall  make  it 
my  affair  to  keep  that." 
114 


Victoria  Delsaro,  Missing 

She  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  con 
tinued  slowly : 

"  For  just  one  instant  when  you  were 
talking  it  seemed  possible  to  go  back  to 
America  with  him  and  my  baby,  and  take 
up  life  there  with  their  help.  But  that 
was  madness.  We  are  happy,  we  have 
all  we  want,  we  can  take  care  of  our  boy, 
and  God  forbid  that  I  should  put  him  and 
his  father  through  the  bitter  school  I  found 
there.  We  love  each  other,  and  that  is 
all  that  really  counts  in  life.  This  is  our 
home — our  paradise.  Here  we  remain/' 


The    One 

Who    Intervened 


The    One 

Who    Intervened 


iiT  was  rumored  in  the  offices 
of  the  New  York  Evening 
Trumpet  that  Gordon,  the 
city  editor,  had  a  "grief." 

The  exact  nature  of  this 
heart-soreness  was  a  mystery.  Many  con 
jectures  concerning  it,  offered  by  the  mem 
bers  of  the  staff,  were  successively  de 
clined  after  the  thoughtful  consideration 
the  subject  merited.  The  most  plausi 
ble  theories  were  advanced  by  two  of  the 
men  whose  opinions  usually  carried  much 
weight.  One  of  these  was  by  Northrup, 
the  "star  reporter,"  who  inclined  to  the  be 
lief  that  the  city  editor  had  a  love  affair. 
The  other  was  by  Morton,  the  sporting 
119 


Tales  of  Destiny 

editor,  who  asserted  that,  in  his  opinion, 
Gordon's  evident  gloom  was  caused  by  a 
debt — a  large  one. 

Morton's  diagnosis  of  the  case  would 
have  been  very  valuable  if  he  himself  had 
not  been  haunted  by  a  bill  collector,  whose 
patient  stand  at  the  front  entrance  of  the 
Trumpet  building  had  constrained  the 
newspaper  man  to  the  use  of  the  side  door. 
Recalling  this,  his  associates  adjudged 
him  unable  to  bring  to  the  solution  of  the 
office  problem  the  unclouded  mind  its  im 
portance  deserved.  They  therefore  received 
his  surmise  with  a  certain  coldness.  They 
felt,  on  the  other  hand,  that  Northrup's 
suggestion  was  less  telling  than  it  would 
have  been  if  he  had  not,  at  the  same  time, 
been  proudly  exhibiting  to  his  friends  the 
photograph  of  a  young  person  in  white. 

It  was  hinted  that  perhaps  Miss  Wet- 
more  knew  something  of  the  cause  of  the 
city  editor's  carking  care.  Almost  every 
man  on  the  Evening  Trumpet  had  con 
fided  his  woes  to  her.  Why  not  Gordon? 
True,  he  was  not  communicative  at  the 
best,  but  man's  tendency  to  talk  of  his 
120 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

troubles  to  a  sympathetic  woman  had,  of 
course,  some  place  in  him.  Every  one 
knew  that  he  admired  and  respected  his 
leading  woman  reporter.  What  more  nat 
ural  than  that  he  should  have  offered 
at  least  a  half-confidence,  if  only  in  the 
form  of  an  apology  for  the  curtness  and 
grumpiness  he  had  shown  of  late  to  the 
members  of  his  staff? 

If  he  had,  Miss  Wetmore  had  not  be 
trayed  his  trust.  She  was  conscious  of 
the  quiet  discussion  which  went  on  around 
her  each  day  after  the  first  edition  of  the 
newspaper  had  gone  to  press,  but  she  took 
no  part  in  it  except  to  remark  on  one  occa 
sion  that  Mr.  Gordon's  private  affairs  were 
of  no  interest  to  her,  and  that  such  free 
comment  on  them  in  the  office  was  in  sin 
gularly  bad  taste.  Her  associates  look 
ed  ill  -  used  for  half  an  hour  afterwards, 
but  the  criticism  did  not  prevent  them 
from  watching  the  city  editor  closely  every 
time  he  approached  her  desk  or  sent  for 
her  to  come  to  his.  Nevertheless,  they 
were  temporarily  off  guard  during  one  of 
these  visits  on  a  certain  Friday,  and  with 
121 


Tales  of  Destiny 

what  they  would  have  called  the  irony  of 
fate  it  was  on  this  occasion  that  Gordon 
for  the  first  time  touched  upon  personal 
matters  to  the  newspaper  woman. 

He  was  looking  pale  and  haggard,  and 
the  girl  noticed  this  with  a  thrill  of  sym 
pathy.  She  liked  Mr.  Gordon.  He  had 
been  very  considerate  in  his  treatment  of 
her,  and  she  remembered  her  experience 
with  other  city  editors  vividly  enough  to 
appreciate  his  almost  invariable  courtesy. 
Something  of  her  feeling  was  in  her  eyes 
as  she  glanced  down  at  the  tired -faced 
young  man  who  was  bunched  forward 
over  his  desk  with  depression  in  every 
line  of  his  relaxed  figure.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  sympathetic  expression  which  wrung 
from  Gordon  the  unexpected  speech  that 
left  his  lips. 

"I'm  in  great  trouble,  Miss  Wetmore," 
he  broke  out,  so  suddenly  that  the  reporter 
started.  The  remark  was  too  unlike  his 
usual  cool  reticence  for  her  not  to  look  at 
him  in  surprise,  and  then  cast  an  appre 
hensive  glance  around.  There  was  a  tem 
porary  lull  over  the  city  room.  The  first 
122 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

edition  of  the  Evening  Trumpet  was  on 
the  presses,  and  the  young  men  of  the 
staff  had  turned  from  copy  writing  and 
reading  to  spirited  discussion  of  the  points 
of  a  certain  pup.  The  pup  was  present 
with  his  owner,  a  vividly  attired  Bowery 
youth,  who  bore  a  striking  resemblance 
to  his  pet  in  face  and  figure.  The  city 
editor's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the 
woman's,  and  rested  with  quick  appre 
ciation  on  the  interested  group. 

"They're  all  right,"  he  said,  "and  we 
can  talk.  I  have  no  right  to  bore  you 
with  my  affairs,"  he  wrent  on,  apologeti 
cally.  "  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  it  were  not  that 
I  believe  you  can  help  me — and  I'm  afraid 
nobody  else  can." 

"Then  please  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she 
replied,  with  quiet  earnestness.  "  It  will 
be  a  pleasure  to  me,"  she  added,  "to  do 
anything  I  can.  I  hope  you  feel  that." 

"  If  I  did  not,  I  should  not  come  to  you/' 
he  told  her.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
closely  studying  her  expression  as  he  went 
on. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story. 
123 


Tales  of  Destiny 

It  won't  take  long,  and  the  boys  will  think 
I'm  giving  you  an  assignment.  You 
might  make  it  look  like  that  by  taking  a 
few  notes.  Here's  the  situation.  There's 
a  woman  in  it,  of  course.  I've  been  devoted 
to  her  for  three  years.  Her  people  object 
to  me.  I  can't  tell  you  why — it's  too  long 
a  story,  and  that  doesn't  matter.  Lately 
they  have  boycotted  me,  so  to  speak.  I 
haven't  been  allowed  to  enter  their  house. 
She  and  I  have  managed  to  meet  once  or 
twice  at  the  home  of  a  common  friend,  and 
to  get  a  few  letters  to  each  other,  but  they 
discovered  that.  The  result  of  it  all  is 
that  they're  sending  her  to  Europe.  They 
have  engaged  her  passage  on  the  Cham 
pagne,  and  she  sails  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  nobly  guarded  by  the  entire  family. 
They've  surrounded  her  with  a  human 
wall  of  big  brothers,  maiden  aunts,  and 
all  that.  I've  attacked  it  from  various 
points  and  it's  surprisingly  strong.  I 
can't  reach  her;  I  can't  even  get  a  letter 
to  her.  Of  course,  if  they  take  her  off 
before  I  can  communicate  with  her  it  will 
end  everything.  She'll  think  I'm  indiffer- 
124 


The  One  Who   Intervened 

ent,  or  they'll  tell  her  some  yarn — Heaven 
knows  what.  They  intend  to  keep  her 
abroad  two  years.  No  doubt  they'll  spend 
that  time  poisoning  her  mind  against 
me,"  ended  Gordon,  pausing  to  reflect 
bitterly  upon  this  gloomy  prospect. 

Miss  Wetmore  made  a  few  notes  on  the 
pad  before  her.  Morton  was  sauntering 
past  the  desk. 

"  Last  night  an  inspiration  came  to  me," 
continued  the  city  editor,  more  slowly. 
He  had  drooped  forward  again  and  was 
nervously  fingering  the  papers  on  his  desk. 
"It's  a  fine  one,  but  the  practical  appli 
cation  of  it  depends  on  you.  I  have  man 
aged  to  get  a  few  words  to  her  this  morn 
ing,  asking  her  to  receive  'Miss  Smith' 
to-day.  She  will  understand.  What  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  be '  Miss  Smith '  for  this  oc 
casion  only.  Call  on  her,  send  up  your 
name,  talk  about  your  plan  to  get  up  a 
series  of  parlor  readings  for  the  Hotten 
tots,  or  something  of  that  kind,  and  the 
moment  you're  alone  with  her  give  her 
this  letter  from  me."  He  extracted  a 
bulky  envelope  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke 
125 


Tales   of  Destiny 

and  laid  it  on  her  desk.  It  bore  no  name 
or  address. 

"  I — I — really,  I  don't  want  to  seem  to 
hesitate  for  a  moment — and  yet — "  stam 
mered  the  girl,  doubtfully.  A  dozen  ques 
tions  were  rising  in  her  mind.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  should  have  the  answer  to 
one  or  two  of  them,  at  least,  before  consid 
ering  the  matter  further.  Gordon  looked 
at  her,  and  his  eyes  fell  rather  consciously 
before  the  glance  in  hers.  Then  he  raised 
them  again  suddenly. 

"She  is  utterly  wretched,"  he  urged. 
"If  I  can  get  her  away  from  them  she'll 
be  happy  for  the  first  time  in  years.  You 
don't  know  the  conditions  and  I  can't  ex 
plain  them.  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  un 
derstand  them  if  I  did.  Women  don't 
reason  as  men  do  about — well,  about  these 
things.  All  that  I  can  say  is  that  I  love 
her  devotedly,  and  I  know  she  cares  for 
me,  although  she  has  not  yet  admitted  it 
in  so  many  words.  She  is  miserable, 
and  my  greatest  wish  is  to  make  her 
happy." 

His  voice  grew  slightly  husky  as  he 
126 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

spoke.  There  was  no  questioning  the 
depth  and  sincerity  of  his  feeling. 

'  There  is  no  sense  in  giving  you  a  half- 
confidence/'  he  went  on.  "  I  tell  you  frank 
ly  that  I  am  asking  her  to  be  taken  sud 
denly  ill  and  miss  that  steamer  to-morrow. 
That  will  give  me  a  few  days  more  time, 
in  which  I  may  be  able  to  carry  out  an 
other  plan  I  have  in  mind.  Everything 
is  put  before  her  here/'  touching  the  letter 
on  the  desk  as  he  spoke.  "  Where's  the 
woman  in  you  if  you  don't  appreciate  the 
beauty  and  romance  of  a  confidence  like 
this?"  he  added,  more  lightly.  She  was 
evidently  yielding,  and  his  spirits  rose  as 
he  observed  this.  He  broke  out  in  one  of 
his  unusual  but  infectious  laughs. 

"Come  now,"  he  said,  coaxingly.  "You're 
going  to  help  us!" 

Miss  Wetmore  closed  her  note-book  and 
put  the  letter  he  had  given  her  into  her 
pocket. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  she  said.  "Where 
am  I  to  go,  and  what  is  the  lady's  name?" 

He  gave  the  street  and  number  promptly 
enough,  but  there  was  a  perceptible  hesi- 
127 


Tales    of  Destiny 

tancy  in  his  manner  as  he  added:  "The 
name  is  Gresham.  I  thank  you  more  than 
I  can  say,  Miss  Wetmore/'  he  went  on, 
hastily,  as  he  saw  that  she  was  about  to 
speak.  "I  rely  absolutely  on  your  help 
and  your  discretion.  I  shall  always  hold 
myself  ready  to  do  anything  I  can  for 
you  in  return/' 

The  office  -  boy  came  to  him  with  the 
message  that  he  was  wanted  in  the  busi 
ness  office  and  he  rose  quickly.  "You're 
going  at  once,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 
And  as  the  girl  nodded  he  left  the  room 
with  a  brighter  look  on  his  face  than  he 
had  worn  for  many  weeks. 

Miss  Wetmore  buttoned  her  coat  thought 
fully.  She  would  not  have  been  a  true 
woman  had  she  not  felt  deeply  interested 
in  the  visit  before  her,  but  there  were  cer 
tain  phases  of  her  mission  which  did  not 
appeal  to  her  so  convincingly. 

"I  wish  I  knew  more  about  it  all/'  she 
mused,  as  she  walked  towards  the  elevated 
station  at  Park  Place.  "Probably  they're 
both  wretched;  but  there  may  be  some 
thing  to  say  on  the  other  side  of  the  ques- 
128 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

tion,  too.  I  ought  to  hear  from  one  of 
the  maiden  aunts.  No  doubt  she'd  be 
eloquent  on  the  subject/'  added  the  news 
paper  woman,  smiling  at  the  vision  this 
thought  called  up.  "At  all  events,"  she 
reflected,  as  she  entered  the  train,  "Mr. 
Gordon  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  he 
is  thoroughly  in  earnest  about  this  matter. 
I've  promised  to  help  him,  and  I  shall  do 
all  I  can." 

She  repeated  to  herself  this  resolution 
as  she  sent  her  card  to  Miss  Gresham  by 
the  maid  who  answered  the  bell.  She 
was  ushered  into  the  library,  and  while 
she  awaited  the  maid's  return  she  found 
herself  unconsciously  studying  the  books 
and  pictures  around  her  as  possible  indi 
cations  of  the  taste  of  their  owner.  A 
bright  fire  in  the  open  grate  invited  her  to 
a  leather-covered  chair  drawn  closely  up 
to  the  blaze.  As  she  sank  into  its  open 
arms  she  noticed  that  the  perfume  of  roses 
filled  the  room,  and  that  a  vase  on  the  table 
held  great  masses  of  the  beautiful  flowers. 
Low  bookcases  lined  the  walls,  and  above 
them  hung  a  number  of  excellent  water- 
9  129 


Tales   of  Destiny 

colors  and  etchings.  On  the  large  library 
table  were  scattered  magazines  and  peri 
odicals  illustrating  the  current  literature 
of  Europe  and  America. 

A  book,  with  a  paper-knife  thrust  be 
tween  its  uncut  leaves,  lay  open  on  the 
rug,  as  if  the  reader  had  dropped  it  hastily 
in  response  to  some  sudden  summons. 
Miss  Wetmore  picked  it  up  and  glanced 
at  the  title.  It  was  a  new  edition  of  Her- 
rick's  love-songs,  and  several  of  the  sweet 
est  were  marked  by  a  swift  pencil  stroke. 
On  the  fly  -  leaf,  also  in  pencil,  was  the 
name  "Alice  Gresham."  The  writing  was 
Herbert  Gordon's.  Miss  Wetmore  had  seen 
it  too  often  on  assignment  slips  and  curt 
office  messages  not  to  recognize  imme 
diately  the  characteristic  sweep  of  the 
letters.  She  smiled  as  she  laid  the  little 
volume  on  the  table,  for  the  few  pencil- 
marks  had  brought  the  city  editor's  love 
affair  before  her  almost  as  vividly  as  his 
own  hurried  words  had  done.  She  re 
membered  that  she  was  in  the  house  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  and  that  she  was  there 
with  the  avowed  purpose  of  helping  them 
130 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

both.  Judging  by  these  surroundings, 
Miss  Gresham  was  a  woman  of  wealth 
and  culture.  The  city  editor  had  only  his 
good  name,  his  brains,  and  his  salary,  the 
latter  a  liberal  one,  but  not  sufficiently 
elastic  to  meet  the  demands  of  an  estab 
lishment  like  this.  Doubtless  that  was 
why  the  stern  parent  objected.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  the  young  people  were  justified 
in  questioning  parental  authority.  Miss 
Wetmore  had  not  felt  so  sure  of  that  when 
she  entered,  and  her  spirits  rose  as  this 
solution  of  the  problem  presented  itself  to 
her  as  feasible.  Her  reverie  was  inter 
rupted  by  the  reappearance  of  the  maid 
who  had  admitted  her. 

"  Madame  asks  if  it  will  inconvenience 
mademoiselle  to  wait  ten  or  fifteen  min 
utes/'  she  said.  "She  wishes  to  see  mad 
emoiselle,  but  several  of  her  friends  are 
with  her  to  say  good-bye.  She  leaves 
for  Europe  to-morrow.  When  they  have 
departed,  she  will  ask  mademoiselle  to  be 
so  good  as  to  come  to  her  up-stairs." 

"  Please  say  I  will  await  her  convenience 
— but  it  is  Miss  Gresham,  not  Mrs.  Gresh- 


Tales   of  Destiny 

am,  I  wish  to  see/'  corrected  the  news 
paper  woman. 

The  maid  looked  surprised. 

'There  is  but  one/'  she  replied,  quietly. 
"  My  meestrees  is  Madame  Gresham ;  there 
is  no  Mees  Gresham  in  the  family.  It  is 
madame  who  has  been  expecting  Madem 
oiselle  Smeeth  all  day.  She  told  me  to  see 
that  she  was  informed  the  moment  Madem 
oiselle  Smeeth  came." 

The  Frenchwoman  had  spoken  slowly 
and  meaningly.  Miss  Wetmore  glanced 
up  and  met  her  eye.  The  expression  in 
it  could  have  but  one  significance.  The 
woman  evidently  knew  the  reason  of  her 
visit.  It  had  been  through  her,  probably, 
that  Gordon's  words  of  warning  had  pen 
etrated  the  carefully  guarded  household. 
The  whole  situation  unrolled  itself  before 
the  reporter,  and  her  enlightenment  was 
not  pleasant. 

"I  will  wait  for  Mrs.  Gresham,"  she 
said,  quietly.  The  maid  immediately  left 
the  room  with  a  soft  "  Merci,  mademoi 
selle,"  and  there  was  a  little  time  before 
her  in  which  to  readjust  herself  to  the  sit- 
132 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

uation.  She  was  trying  to  do  this  and  to 
call  her  chaotic  thoughts  to  order  when 
she  heard  a  gurgle  of  childish  laughter, 
which  floated  to  the  library  from  some 
upper  region  of  the  house.  It  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  succession  of  small  thumps, 
like  the  dragging  of  an  object  down  the 
stairs,  and  by  various  infantile  ejaculations, 
vague  at  first,  but  growing  in  distinctness. 
Then  there  was  the  rattle  of  little  wheels, 
the  clink  of  toy  harness,  and  in  another 
moment  a  small  boy  about  five  years  old 
walked  composedly  into  the  room,  draw 
ing  after  him  a  wagon  to  which  two  ex 
ceedingly  spirited  wooden  horses  were  at 
tached. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  black  velvet  suit, 
with  a  wide,  white  lace  collar.  He  wore 
also  an  air  of  the  most  ingratiating  friend 
liness.  His  short  curls  stood  on  end,  as 
if  through  lively  interest  in  the  occasion, 
and  every  tooth  in  his  head  shone  as  he 
walked  towards  the  caller,  with  one  dim 
pled  hand  extended  and  the  other  guid 
ing  the  mettlesome  animals  behind  him. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  asked,  with  blithe 
133 


Tales   of  Destiny 

hospitality.  "Celeste  said  somebody  was 
here  to  see  mama,  so  I  fought  I'd  turn 
down.  Mama  doesn't  know  I  turn,"  he 
added,  more  slowly,  and  with  a  slightly 
apprehensive  glance  towards  the  door. 

Miss  Wetmore  laughed  and  gave  him 
an  appreciative  hug,  which  seemed  to  sur 
prise  as  well  as  reassure  him. 

"  But  I'm  afraid  you  ought  not  to  be 
here,"  she  added,  dutifully,  "if  mama 
doesn't  know." 

The  infant  responded  to  these  advances 
by  getting  into  her  lap  with  a  confiding 
smile. 

"She  won't  tare,"  he  said,  carelessly. 
"She  lets  me  turn,  sometimes.  She  tells 
me  to  'muse  tallers.  Shall  I  'muse  you?" 
he  added,  politely.  He  had  rested  his  head 
against  her  shoulder,  and  as  she  looked 
down  at  him  she  saw  the  creases  in  his 
fat  little  neck  under  the  lace  collar,  and 
the  big  dimples  in  the  hand  that  rested  on 
her  lap.  His  eyes  were  brown — an  un 
usually  vivid  brown,  strangely  like  a  cer 
tain  pair  of  eyes  she  loved  and  had  not 
seen  for  years.  An  unusual  tenderness 
134 


The  One  Who   Intervened 

rose  in  the  heart  of  the  matter-of-fact  re 
porter,  whose  profession  had  long  since 
checked  any  excess  of  sentiment  in  her 
nature.  She  kissed  the  boy  softly,  and 
rested  her  cheek  against  the  velvet  one  so 
near  it. 

"You  should  be  out  in  the  park,"  she 
said,  "looking  for  the  first  spring  flowers. 
The  dandelions  are  beginning  to  come  up 
now,  and  little  boys  with  sharp  eyes  are 
finding  them." 

He  laughed,  looking  up  at  her  with 
eyes  that  sparkled  with  the  delight  of  this 
new  friendship. 

"I  do,  sometimes,"  he  added.  'To-day 
I  touldn't.  We  are  doin'  to  Europe.  We're 
doin'  to-mowwow.  Everybody  is  putting 
fings  in  trunks  and  boxes." 

"Why,  that  will  be  very  nice,"  his  new 
acquaintance  said.  "Perhaps  you'll  find 
other  little  boys  to  play  with  on  the  steamer. 
Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters?" 

"No,"  her  youthful  host  replied,  slowly. 

"  There's  only  papa  and  mama,  and  me 

and  Uncle  Herbert  Gordon.     Mama's  nice, 

but  she  cwies  all  the  time,  and  Uncle  Her- 

135 


Tales  of  Destiny 

bert's  vewy  nice.  He's  nicer  than  papa. 
Uncle  Herbert  works  on  a  newspaper.  He 
isn't  my  weally,  twuly  uncle,  but  he  said 
I  could  tall  him  uncle.  I  work  on  his 
newspaper,  too.  I  wite  rings,  and  he 
bwings  me  money  in  a  little  wen — wen- 
velwope." 

He  stopped  for  breath  after  this  struggle 
with  the  last  word,  and  Miss  Wetmore 
seized  the  opportunity  to  turn  his  infant 
mind  to  other  topics.  These  glimpses 
into  the  Gresham  menage,  while  exceed 
ingly  interesting  under  the  circumstances, 
were  certainly  not  wholly  justified.  She 
fixed  admiring  eyes  on  the  horses,  tem 
porarily  forgotten  on  the  floor. 

'Those  are  very  nice  horses/'  she  com 
mented.  "  Do  they  ever  run  away?" 

"Uncle  Herbert  gived  'em  to  me,"  was 
the  prompt  response.  "He  gived  me  lots 
of  fings — a  wocking-horse  an'  soldiers  an' 
dwums  an'  a  'team -car  that  goes  when 
you  wind  it  up.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a 
great  many  days.  He  doesn't  turn  here 
any  more.  I  asked  papa  why,  and  he 
went  wight  out,  and  mama  cwied,"  con- 
136 


The  One  Who   Intervened 

tinued  this  cherubic-faced  enfant  terrible, 
the  words  pouring  from  his  innocent  lips 
like  the  rush  of  a  small  Niagara. 

Miss  Wetmore  gasped  a  little  as  if  the 
conversational  spray  had  dashed  into  her 
face.  She  was  conscious  of  the  hope  that 
Master  Gresham  did  not  "  'muse "  all  his 
mother's  callers  by  a  like  artless  revela 
tion  of  family  affairs.  Much  to  her  relief, 
he  changed  the  subject  with  childish  in 
consequence. 

"Papa's  pwetty  dood,  too,"  he  went 
on,  patronizing^.  "He  taked  me  to  the 
park  one  day.  I  cwied  'cos  I  touldn't  do 
out  wif  Uncle  Herbert.  Papa  cwied,  too. 
He  wiped  his  eyes  wif  his  hankfish,  and 
'en  we  hed  a  nice  time  sailing  boats." 

Miss  Wetmore  put  the  boy  gently  on 
the  floor.  She  felt  a  little  dizzy  with  it  all, 
and  longed  to  think.  He  stood  in  front 
of  her,  surprised  but  unoffended  by  his 
exclusion  from  her  lap,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  his  small  legs  very  wide 
apart  and  his  big  brown  eyes  fixed  on 
her  face. 

"I  like  you,"  he  remarked,  with  frank 
137 


Tales   of  Destiny 

appreciation.  'Tan't  you  do  to  Europe 
wif  us?  Papa  said  we  will  begin  'gain 
in  Europe.  How  do  you  begin  'gain?" 

Miss  Wetmore  looked  at  him  rather 
vaguely,  but  did  not  speak  until  in  some 
disappointment  he  turned  away. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  beginning  again — 
in  some  ways,"  she  then  said,  slowly, 
watching  the  rear  view  of  the  child's  fat 
legs  he  was  now  giving  her  as  he  strug 
gled  with  the  little  cart  which  he  had  up 
set.  Hearing  her  voice,  he  desisted  and 
turned  a  flushed  face  towards  her. 

"I've  bwoke  my  wheel,"  he  said,  with 
the  calmness  of  despair  in  his  tone.  "If 
Uncle  Herbert  was  here  he'd  fix  it.  He 
always  fixed  fings  wight  off." 

Miss  Wetmore  rose  quickly,  and  took 
the  little  cart  from  the  floor.  By  diligent 
work  on  the  broken  wheel,  and  by  leading 
the  conversation  to  the  joys  of  out -door 
and  in-door  games,  she  diverted  the  mind 
of  the  infant  and  restricted  his  prattle  to 
legitimate  topics. 

"If  you  had  a  wittle  bwother  you'd  be 
dood  to  him,  wouldn't  you?"  was  the  flat- 
138 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

tering  comment  won  by  the  return  of  the 
wheel  with  its  usefulness  unimpaired. 

"I  have  a  brother/'  his  new  friend  told 
him.  "  He  isn't  a  very  little  brother,  but  I 
try  to  be  good  to  him." 

"  Would  you  be  dood  to  me  always,  if  I 
was  your  wittle  bwother?"  was  the  next 
question. 

"Very.  We'll  play  you  are,  anyhow. 
You  aren't  the  first  young  man  I've  prom 
ised  to  be  a  sister  to,"  she  laughed,  pinch 
ing  the  plump  cheeks  of  the  face  so  trust 
fully  upturned  to  her.  The  boy  was  leaning 
against  her  knees,  his  elbows  resting  on 
them,  and  his  chin  in  his  little  hands. 
"  I'm  going  to  be  very  good  to  you,  as  it  is. 
You'll  never  understand  how  good,"  she 
added. 

She  spoke  brightly  and  decidedly.  The 
situation,  as  now  revealed  to  her,  left  but 
one  course  open.  Her  cheeks  had  flushed 
scarlet  as  she  realized  the  part  Gordon 
had  meant  her  to  play.  It  was  strange — 
not  flattering,  she  told  herself — that  he 
understood  her  so  little  after  their  year  of 
work  together  in  the  same  office.  But  he 
139 


Tales  of  Destiny 

evidently  was  desperate,  and  had  staked 
all  on  one  forlorn  hope. 

"  The  fostering  friend  of  such  a  couple 
is  not  exactly  my  role  in  any  event/'  she 
had  mused,  as  she  toiled  over  the  broken 
wheel.  "When  the  party  of  the  second 
part  is  a  married  woman  and  the  mother 
of  an  adorable  child  like  this,  I  must  de 
cline  to  go  further.  They  can't  communi 
cate  without  my  help,  and  they  shall  not 
have  that.  Consequently  they  can't  com 
municate  at  all.  By  all  means  let  her  go 
to  Europe  and  forget  the  man.  It  may  be 
merely  a  sentimental  episode — and  she  has 
a  wise  husband." 

She  debated  mentally  as  to  whether  she 
should  wait  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Gresham. 
A  little  natural  curiosity  prompted  a  meet 
ing,  but  the  girl's  better  judgment  pre 
vailed. 

"  Why  should  I  see  her?"  she  asked 
herself.'  "I  don't  think  I'd  be  foolish 
enough  to  let  her  change  my  decision. 
Still,  one  can't  tell,  and  anyhow  a  meeting 
would  only  be  unpleasant  for  us  both." 
She  pushed  Gordon's  thick  letter  deeper 
140 


The  One  Who   Intervened 

into  her  pocket.  Then  a  sudden  inspira 
tion  came  to  her  and  she  turned  again  to 
Mrs.  Gresham's  son  and  heir.  He  was 
ostentatiously  unbuckling  the  straps  in 
the  harness  of  his  mettlesome  steeds,  but 
he  stopped  courteously  as  she  spoke. 

"My  little  brother/'  she  said,  smiling, 
"I  am  going  away  now,  and  I  want  you 
to  give  your  mama  a  message  for  me. 
Do  you  think  you  can  remember  it?" 

'Tourse  I  tan,"  responded  the  small 
brother  of  her  adoption,  with  cheerful  as 
surance,  "I  'member  lots  of  rings." 

Recalling  the  conversation  with  which 
he  had  favored  her,  Miss  Wetmore  felt  he 
was  justified  in  this  modest  tribute  to  him 
self.  She  took  his  small  hands  in  her 
own,  and  looked  steadily  into  his  brown 
eyes  as  she  gave  him  the  message. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  this  to  your  mama, 
and  not  to  anybody  else.  Do  you  under 
stand?" 

'Tourse  I  do,"  said  the  infant  diplo 
mat,  again.     "  I  mustn't  tell  papa.     Mama 
tells  me  lots  of  rings  not  to  tell  papa," 
he  added,  with  some  expansiveness.     Miss 
141 


Tales   of  Destiny 

Wetmore  promptly  checked  further  revela 
tions  along  these  lines,  sorry  to  be  obliged 
to  add  to  the  list. 

"Tell  mama  that  Miss  Smith  made 
a  mistake  in  coming  here,  and  that  you 
showed  it  to  her.  Can  you  remember 
that?"  she  asked. 

"Miss  Smiff  made  a  'stake  tumin'  here 
and  I  showed  it  to  her,"  repeated  the  boy, 
slowly.  "  But  I  didn't,"  he  added,  quickly. 
"I  didn't  show  you  any  'stake." 

His  lower  lip  quivered  treacherously. 
He  evidently  felt  that  something  was 
wrong.  The  newspaper  woman  reassured 
him  with  a  kiss  as  she  rose  and  struggled 
into  her  coat. 

"Oh  yes,  you  did!"  she  laughed.  "You 
tell  your  mama  how  you  'mused  me, 
and  she'll  understand.  It's  all  right,  dear 
little  man.  You're  a  very  good  boy,  and 
both  your  mama  and  I  have  reason  to 
be  grateful  to  you." 

She    waited    for    his    responsive    smile, 

which  dawned  brightly  as  he  trundled  his 

little  cart  out  into  the  hall  after  her.     A 

light  ripple   of  laughter   came  down   the 

142 


The  One  Who  Intervened 

stairs,  accompanied  by  the  rustle  of  silk 
skirts.  Mrs.  Gresham's  guests  were  tak 
ing  their  departure.  That  lady's  son  ac 
companied  the  newspaper  woman  to  the 
door,  and  followed  her  wistfully  with  his 
eyes  until  she  closed  it  from  the  outside. 
It  looked  very  bright  and  sunshiny  down 
there  in  the  street.  Other  little  boys  were 
playing  marbles  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
there  was  an  organ  only  half  a  block 
away.  It  was  not  so  nice  in  the  house 
with  mama  crying  and  everybody  put 
ting  things  in  trunks.  The  corners  of  the 
small  boy's  mouth  went  down  a  little. 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  some 
thing  to  do  —  a  message  to  deliver.  He 
might  forget  it  if  he  waited  longer.  His 
face  brightened  as  he  recalled  it,  and  the 
little  wheels  of  the  wagon  squeaked  as  he 
started  up-stairs  to  his  mother,  repeating 
it  softly  to  himself. 


Her  Friend 


Her    Friend 


IISS  WINGATE  sank  com 
fortably  into  her  steamer- 
chair  and  submitted  herself, 
with  the  ease  of  one  long 
used  to  such  service,  to  the 
ministrations  of  a  deck  steward.  He  deftly 
tucked  her  rug  around  her  and  folded  it 
in  under  her  feet,  adjusted  the  cushions 
at  exactly  the  right  angle  to  support  her 
back,  and  then  laid  in  her  lap  the  package 
of  mail  and  the  book  and  periodical  whose 
leaves  were  still  uncut. 

The  New  York  pier  from  which  the  great 
ocean  liner  had  just  swung  out  was  not  half 
an  hour  behind.  Some  of  the  passengers 
were  now  hanging  over  the  deck  -  rail, 
gazing  homesickly  at  the  receding  Amer 
ican  shore.  Others  bustled  actively  about, 
147 


Tales  of  Destiny 

settling  themselves  for  the  morning  as 
Miss  Wingate  had  already  done,  but  even 
among  these  she  saw  suspiciously  red  eye 
lids.  She  had  shed  no  tears  over  her  de 
parture  from  her  native  land,  and  the 
distinguished  friends  who  had  come  down 
to  the  pier  to  see  her  off  had  also  borne  the 
parting  with  undiminished  cheerfulness. 
She  felt  they  would  exist  very  comfortably 
during  the  four  months  that  were  to  elapse 
before  they  saw  her  again.  So  would  she ! 
There  was  not  one  among  them,  as  she 
was  only  too  well  assured,  at  all  vital  to 
her.  Humanity  interested  her  imperson 
ally,  but  for  individuals  she  had  found 
surprisingly  little  affinity.  She  glanced 
carelessly  over  the  letters  in  her  lap,  and, 
as  she  recognized  the  handwriting,  could 
forecast  the  entertainment  or  support  each 
was  likely  to  afford.  Many  of  them  would 
be  entertaining,  a  few  brilliant — but  there 
was  not  a  heart  throb  in  one  of  those  letters. 
She  smiled  as  the  thought  crossed  her 
mind,  but  let  herself  dwell  on  what  it  con 
noted. 

Why   should  there   be   a   heart   throb? 
148 


Her   Friend 

She  had  done  nothing  to  call  for  one,  that 
she  could  remember.  Her  intercourse  with 
others  was  cordial,  but  never  close.  Many 
men  had  pretended  to  love  her,  but  her 
money,  she  feared,  might  account  for  that; 
and  women  flattered  her,  for  her  position 
was  an  enviable  one  and  she  could  do 
much  for  her  so-called  friends.  Now  she 
was  trying  a  new  experiment.  She  was 
going  abroad.  She  knew  no  one  on  the 
ship,  and  exulted  in  the  fact.  She  had 
dropped  a  part  of  her  name  and  was  trav 
elling  very  simply,  without  a  maid.  For 
a  time  she  would  be  a  spectator  of  life 
as  acted  on  the  steamer's  stage,  with  its 
human  freight  as  the  dramatis  personae. 
Then,  when  she  reached  Europe,  she  would 
work  among  the  poor  and  do  what  good 
she  could  among  them. 

The  chairs  on  deck  had  begun  to  fill, 
for  the  morning  was  passing.  She  looked 
more  closelj7  at  her  nearest  neighbors. 
At  her  right  an  open  door  led  to  the  stairs 
that  descended  to  the  lower  deck.  There 
was  no  chair  on  that  side,  as  it  would  have 
interfered  with  the  people  who  used  the 
149 


Tales    of  Destiny 

passage-way.  The  first  five  of  the  chairs 
beyond  the  door  were  occupied  by  a  Ger 
man  family  of  eminent  respectability  and 
unmistakable  dulness.  At  her  left  was  a 
vacant  chair,  and  beyond  that  several 
travelling  salesmen  held  forth  in  animated 
discussion  of  the  merits  of  their  respective 
business  houses.  Miss  Wingate  surveyed 
the  empty  chair  with  a  curious  eye.  In 
the  place  for  the  owner's  name  there  was  a 
small  card,  which,  without  compunction, 
she  leaned  forward  to  read.  It  bore  one 
word — that  rose  in  black  from  its  white 
background  with  almost  painful  direct 
ness.  The  word  was  Smith. 

Miss  Wingate  closed  her  eyes  weari 
ly  and  struggled  with  an  unmistakable 
sense  of  disappointment,  for  she  had  taken 
a  slow  ship,  and  there  were  eight  days 
of  this  environment  before  her.  A  little 
bustle  made  her  open  them  again.  The 
steward,  bearing  an  armful  of  rugs  and 
cushions,  stood  beside  the  empty  chair, 
and  a  woman  was  just  preparing  to 
seat  herself  in  it.  She  dropped  her 
lashes  and  studied  the  new  neighbor 
150 


M    ffi 

O    M 

a  co 


>  w 

•i]  O 

V 

O  H 


Her   Friend 

behind     the     effective     screen     they    af 
forded. 

She  was  young,  Miss  Wingate  decided. 
She  herself  had  reached  the  age  when  all 
women  seem  young  who  are  under  forty. 
Miss  Smith  — or  was  it  Mrs.  Smith?  — 
was  perhaps  thirty-five.  She  stood  with 
her  back  to  the  silent  spectator,  and  the 
latter  observed  with  appreciation  the  per 
fection  of  her  figure  and  her  costume.  On 
her  head  was  a  small  cap  with  a  peak 
to  shade  the  eyes.  Buttoned  around  her 
was  a  tightly  fitting  reefer  of  foreign  make, 
with  an  embroidered  collar  that  came  up 
closely  under  her  chin.  Her  short  skirt 
was  of  heavy  tweed,  and  as  she  settled 
into  her  chair  Miss  Wingate  saw  that  the 
small  feet  the  steward  hastened  to  cover 
with  her  rug  were  clad  in  dark  tan  boots, 
of  perfect  fit  and  style,  with  rubber  heels. 
All  her  travelling  outfit  for  comfort  spoke 
of  luxury,  and  the  slight  gestures  of  the 
hand  with  which  she  emphasized  her  wish 
es  were  those  of  a  woman  accustomed  to 
command  and  to  be  obeyed.  She  did  not 
speak  until  Miss  Wingate  made  a  move- 


Tales   of  Destiny 

ment  to  withdraw  her  own  rug  from  where 
it  encroached  on  her  neighbor's  chair. 
Then  she  turned  alertly,  with  a  singular 
ly  brilliant  smile  and  a  courteous  word 
of  acknowledgment.  The  word  and  one 
glance  of  her  face  supplied  Miss  Wingate 
with  an  instantaneous  conviction.  "It  is 
neither  Mrs.  Smith  nor  Miss  Smith/'  she 
told  herself.  "It  is  not  Smith  at  all." 

It  was  true  that  nothing  could  be  more 
foreign  than  her  neighbor's  face.  Her 
eyes,  of  which  Miss  Wingate  had  caught 
so  brief  a  glimpse,  were  very  large  and 
dark  —  of  a  peculiar  velvety  brown.  Her 
skin  was  richly  olive,  and  against  this 
depth  of  color  the  whiteness  of  her  teeth 
was  almost  startling.  Her  abundant  hair 
was  black  and  had  a  natural  wave.  But 
it  was  her  mouth  to  which  Miss  Wingate's 
gaze  reverted  irresistibly.  Seen  in  pro 
file,  it  showed  exquisite  curves  and  a  tragic 
sadness. 

Later,  Miss  Wingate  glanced  over  her 
passenger  list  for  any  additional  informa 
tion  it  might  afford.  The  ship  was  a 
German  liner,  and  there  was  a  long  array 
152 


Her   Friend 

of  Teutonic  names,  with  a  liberal  sprink 
ling  of  others.  Among  the  S's  she  found 
repeated  the  simple  legend  of  the  chair — 
Mrs.  Smith.  There  were  no  initials.  She 
glanced  again  at  her  neighbor,  and  at 
that  moment  the  first  bugle-call  for  lunch 
eon  echoed  on  deck  and  Mrs.  Smith  unrolled 
herself  from  her  mummy-like  wrappings, 
rose,  and  strolled  below  with  no  eagerness, 
but  a  wholesome,  normal  interest  in  com 
plying  with  its  summons.  The  American 
woman  looked  after  her  as  she  walked 
down  the  deck,  and  the  conclusion  she 
had  reached  earlier  in  the  day  strength 
ened.  Miss  Wingate  had  travelled  much, 
and  had  lived  among  peoples  of  varied  na 
tionalities.  That  supple,  undulating  walk 
she  would  have  recognized  among  the 
women  of  a  hundred  races.  It  was  the 
unmistakable  walk  of  the  Slav. 

After  luncheon  she  drifted  aimlessly 
towards  the  front  of  the  ship,  and,  leaning 
over  the  high  rail,  looked  down  upon  the 
steerage  passengers.  They  were  stretched 
out  upon  the  deck  in  various  stages  of 
discomfort  and  cold  >and  illness.  Just 
153 


Tales   of  Destiny 

below  her  a  mother,  holding  a  sick  child 
in  her  arms,  was  vainly  trying  to  force 
some  food  past  its  lips.  It  turned  its  head 
away  with  a  wail  of  protest.  She  had 
been  conscious  when  she  reached  the  rail 
of  another  silent  figure  leaning  there,  and 
she  was  not  surprised  when  at  her  ear  a 
contralto  voice  with  a  foreign  accent  said, 
quietly : 

"  We  are  good  sailors,  you  and  I,  made 
moiselle.  Our  poor  friends  below  are  less 
happy.  How  ill  they  all  seem,  the  un 
fortunate  ones." 

Miss  Wingate  looked  into  the  brown 
eyes  under  the  little  peaked  cap  and  saw 
that  they  were  wet.  The  sick  baby  and 
the  dumb  suffering  of  the  others  had  ap 
pealed  strongly  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who,  she 
knew  in  that  instant,  was  sympathetic 
and  loved  the  poor.  There  was  no  pose 
in  the  attitude.  Every  line  in  the  woman's 
face  showed  that  those  wet  eyes  had  looked 
long  on  human  suffering  and  that  she 
had  suffered,  too.  The  idle  curiosity  of 
which  the  American  was  half  ashamed 
seemed  to  die  at  once,  and  in  its  place 
154 


Her   Friend 

blossomed  a  sudden  sense  of  intimate 
sympathy  and  understanding.  She  an 
swered  simply,  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  for  years. 

'They  are  ill  now/'  she  said,  "and,  of 
course,  they  are  miserable.  But  there  is 
another  side  to  it.  Most  of  these  people,  I 
think,  are  emigrants  who  have  succeeded 
in  America.  They  have  saved  up  a  little 
money  and  are  going  home  for  a  visit,  or 
to  stay  there  because  they  prefer  it.  The 
discomfort  of  the  moment  is  no  more  to 
them  than  it  is  to  any  of  the  sea-sick  pas 
sengers  on  board.  My  heart  aches  for 
them  when  they  are  coming  to  America 
for  the  first  time  —  when  they  have  left 
their  own  land  behind  and  are  travelling 
to  a  strange  country  to  begin  life  all  over 
again,  handicapped  by  ignorance  and 
poverty/' 

The  dark  face  beside  her  lighted  up 
with  one  of  its  irresistible  smiles. 

"But,  pardon,  to  me  it  seems  that  you 

have   it   all    wrong,"    she    said,    quickly. 

"You  are  looking  at  the  situation  upside 

down.     When  they  are  coming  here  they 

155 


Tales  of  Destiny 

are  taking  a  long  stride  away  from  misery 
towards  progress.  They  have  left  be 
hind  them  their  own  land,  where  there  is 
no  hope  for  such  as  they.  In  this  big, 
fine  country  of  yours  work  and  liberty 
and  a  future  await  them.  That  they  had 
the  courage  to  come  shows  that  in  them, 
in  most  of  them,  will  be  the  courage  to 
conquer.  America  lifts  them  up.  Europe 
grinds  them  down.  Some  of  these  peo 
ple  below  us  are  going  back  to  that. 
Already  I  have  talked  to  them.  The 
mother  with  the  sick  child  found  no  one 
to  meet  her.  Those  three  men  in  the  cor 
ner  are  returning  because  they  have  not 
succeeded.  The  two  near  them,  the  old 
men,  had  not  the  money  to  land.  So 
they  are  facing  their  grim  misery — those 
brothers  of  ours  whom  not  even  America 
could  help." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  she  realized 
her  own  vehemence. 

"Pardon  me/'  she  said;  "do  not  think 
I  am  a  platform  speaker.  But  I  love  these 
people  and  I  have  been  among  them  a 
great  deal." 

156 


Her   Friend 

Miss  Wingate  responded  frankly.  She 
had  worked  among  the  poor  for  years, 
she  said,  and  now  she  was  going  abroad 
to  study  their  condition  over  there.  She 
could  accomplish  more  at  home,  she  add 
ed,  if  she  knew  better  what  their  life  had 
been  before  they  came  here.  It  was  not 
her  habit  to  discuss  this  interest  of  hers, 
but  she  found  herself  doing  it  now  in  de 
tail,  and  was  surprised  by  her  own  un 
usual  expansiveness. 

The  foreigner  turned  a  sudden  glance 
upon  her.  It  was  not  long,  but  in  that 
instant  Miss  Wingate  felt  that  she  was 
weighed  and  judgment  passed.  The  idea 
amused  her  a  little.  She  herself  had  a 
habit  of  holding  the  scales  in  her  world ; 
vshe  had  long  been  a  just  but  exacting 
judge  of  the  men  and  women  around  her. 
Mrs.  Smith  spoke  soberly. 

"I  would  like  to  talk  with  you  more 
about  it  all/'  she  said — "your  work  and 
your  plans.  I  can  perhaps  help  you.  I 
know  well  the  condition  of  the  people  in 
France,  Italy,  Germany — "  She  stopped 
and  looked  out  to  sea.  Far  off,  against 
157 


Tales   of  Destiny 

the  horizon  -  line,  a  whale  was  spouting. 
They  watched  him  idly  until  he  disap 
peared,  and  then  drifted  back  to  their 
steamer  chairs  and  settled  there  cosily  to 
gether,  quite  as  if  their  association  was 
not  to  be  lightly  disturbed. 

That  night  at  ten  o'clock  Miss  Wingate 
sat  on  deck  wondering  what  had  become 
of  her  new  acquaintance.  It  was  cold, 
and  over  the  water  hung  a  gray  mist, 
through  which  the  moonlight  forced  its 
humid  way.  Madame,  as  she  called  her 
in  her  thoughts,  had  not  been  at  dinner. 
For  an  instant  Miss  Wingate  wondered  if 
she  were  ill,  and  at  once  rejected  the  idea 
as  unworthy.  Illness  or  other  weakness 
seemed  remote  from  that  striking  person 
ality;  but  as  the  thought  crossed  her  mind 
she  modified  it,  for  the  woman  herself 
stepped  out  on  deck  through  the  open 
door  beside  her,  and  Miss  Wingate  saw 
that  she  was  very  pale. 

"The  child  has  just  died/'  Mrs.  Smith 
said,  taking  the  other's  interest  and  com 
prehension  for  granted,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  "The  poor  mother!  She  did  not 
158 


Her   Friend 

realize  how  ill  it  was.  They  never  do. 
And  now,  poor  soul — " 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  steerage  the 
whole  evening  ?"  Miss  Wingate  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  since  five  o'clock.  They  had 
the  baby  in  the  hospital  and  the  mother 
was  almost  insane.  Fortunately,  I  speak 
her  language  and  I  could  explain  matters 
to  her.  But  I  came  now  for  you  to  help 
us,  if  you  will.  They  bury  the  little  one 
at  midnight — when  people  are  asleep  and 
the  ship  is  quiet.  The  mother  is  to  be 
present — they  are  willing;  and  if  you  are 
there  with  us  it  may  comfort  her.  She 
knows  no  one,  you  see,  and  it  is  all  very 
terrible  for  her — " 

Mrs.  Smith's  voice  trembled  slightly. 
Calm  as  she  was,  she  showed  the  strain 
she  had  been  under.  She  looked  very 
tired  and  almost  old.  Miss  Wingate  rose 
at  once,  lending  herself  to  the  situation 
in  hand  with  characteristic  energy. 

"We  will  do  all  we  can  for  her,"  she 

said,  "  but  this  moment  it  is  you  who  need 

attention.     You   are   worn   out,    and   you 

have  had  no  dinner. "    She  called  a  passing 

159 


Tales   of  Destiny 

steward,  and  gave  him  a  few  brief  instruc 
tions.  "Bring  it  here,"  she  added.  She 
wrapped  the  rugs  around  the  other  woman 
as  she  spoke,  and  pressed  her  gently  back 
among  the  pillows. 

"You  should  have  let  me  know,"  she 
said,  reproachfully.  "  I  might  have  helped 
instead  of  dreaming  here." 

Mrs.  Smith  succumbed  with  a  little  sigh 
of  relaxation. 

"I  thought  it  might  last  all  night," 
she  explained.  "I  meant  to  call  on  you 
later,  as  I  have  done,  you  see.  Now  we 
are  both  free  for  the  time;  she  sleeps,  and 
one  of  the  steerage  women  watches  her. 
She  has  had  a  dose  of  chloral,  but  I  have 
promised  to  wake  her  at  twelve,  that  she 
may  look  her  last  on  the  little  one." 

She  drank  the  bouillon  when  it  came, 
and  ate  a  sandwich.  "And  now,"  she 
said,  suddenly,  "let  me  doze  for  a  little 
time.  I  have  not  slept  for  a  week,  and  I 
have  been  under  a  great  strain.  I  feel 
to-night  as  if  there  were  a  pall  over  the 
whole  world." 

Miss  Wingate  leaned  back  comfortably 
160 


Her    Friend 

in  her  chair  and  gave  herself  up  to  thought 
Soon  she  knew,  by  the  regular  breath 
ing  of  the  other,  that  the  tired  woman 
was  asleep.  Drawing  her  watch  stealthily 
from  her  belt,  she  saw  that  it  was  eleven 
o'clock.  Madame  had  a  full  hour  in  which 
to  rest  after  the  strain  of  the  day  and  before 
the  greater  strain  of  the  midnight  hour  to 
come.  She  kept  watch  faithfully  by  her 
side,  and,  for  once  in  her  life,  forgot  to 
analyze  the  feeling  that  made  this  service 
possible  and  pleasant. 

She  never  forgot  that  midnight  burial, 
brief  as  it  was.  The  steamer  hung  silent 
on  the  water  for  a  few  tragedy-filled  mo 
ments,  and  the  faces  of  the  officers  and  the 
three  women  looked  ghastly  in  the  moonlit 
mist.  The  waves  seemed  to  take  their 
tiny  burden  reverently,  but  Miss  Wingate 
felt  soul-sick  at  these  rapid  revelations  of 
the  tragedies  of  life.  It  was  almost  dawn 
when  the  two  women  left  the  mother,  and 
in  the  interval  they  had  walked  the  steerage 
deck  with  her  hour  after  hour.  Towards 
morning  chloral  again  worked  its  insid 
ious  benefit,  and  they  were  free.  They 
»  161 


Tales   of  Destiny 

parted  at  the  door  of  Miss  Wingate's  state 
room  with  a  clasp  of  hands.  As  she  un 
dressed  drowsily  in  the  gray  light  of  the 
dawn  stealing  through  the  port-hole  win 
dow,  she  thought  how  singularly  full  and 
unique  had  been  this  first  day  and  night  of 
the  voyage.  She  seemed  to  see  again, 
as  she  lay  in  her  berth,  the  little  body 
consigned  to  the  waves,  and  the  ghastly 
face  of  its  mother.  But  clearest  of  all  was 
her  sense  of  the  dominant  personality  of 
all  those  hours,  the  beautiful-faced  stranger 
who  had,  without  knowing  it,  knocked  at 
the  door  of  her  heart  and  entered.  After  all 
these  years  she  had  found  a  friend.  It 
was  with  this  thought  that  Miss  Wingate 
fell  asleep. 

Two  women  can  become  very  wrell  ac 
quainted  in  eight  days  on  shipboard,  if 
each  is  travelling  alone  and  has,  for  the 
moment,  no  other  dominant  interest.  These 
two  hardly  realized  how  much  they  were 
seeing  of  each  other  as  the  days  passed. 
They  visited  their  steerage  friends,  and  it 
became  the  natural  thing  that  they  should 
walk  and  talk  and  spend  the  days  and 
162 


Her   Friend 

the  long  evenings  together.  In  their  con 
versations  they  touched  on  a  surprising 
range  of  subjects.  Neither  wished  to  speak 
of  herself,  and  a  week  had  passed  before 
each  realized  that  it  was  the  exquisite 
tact  and  good  breeding  of  the  other,  as 
well  as  her  own  preference,  that  kept  the 
topics  so  impersonal.  It  was  extraordinary, 
Miss  Wingate  reflected,  that  it  should  be 
so.  They  were  now  at  the  point  of  part 
ing;  she  herself  was  to  leave  the  steamer 
at  Cherbourg  that  night,  while  Mrs.  Smith 
went  on  to  Hamburg.  In  a  very  few 
hours  they  would  have  separated,  per 
haps  forever,  and  neither  knew  the  other's 
name  or  home,  aught  of  her  family  or  of 
her  friends.  They  had  met  like  disem 
bodied  spirits  on  the  ocean;  they  had  dis 
cussed  music  and  literature  and  art  and 
travel,  and  each  had  felt  a  surprisingly 
strong  sense  of  affectionate  intimacy — 
but  not  a  clew  to  identity  had  slipped 
through  their  lips.  At  their  parting  this 
mysterj7  would  leave  them  as  sharply 
cleft  asunder  as  the  great  waves  cut  by 
the  ship's  prow. 

163 


Tales   of  Destiny 

All  these  thoughts  passed  through  Miss 
Wingate's  mind  as  she  leaned  over  the 
deck-rail,  looking  at  the  lights  that  twin 
kled  on  the  French  coast.  Very  soon  the 
tender  would  come  out  for  the  passengers 
who  were  to  disembark  for  Cherbourg, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  commotion  and 
excitement  she  and  her  new  friend  would 
say  good-bye,  and  that  would  be  the  end 
of  the  most  satisfying  friendship  of  her 
life.  But  need  it  be?  Not  so  far,  surely, 
as  she  herself  was  concerned;  only  too 
gladly  would  she  tell  the  other  anything 
she  wished  to  know.  But  Mrs.  Smith's 
attitude,  she  realized,  was  essentially  dif 
ferent  from  her  own.  The  foreigner's 
was  the  impenetrable  mask  of  the  woman 
who  keeps  her  counsel  for  good  reason 
and  for  all  time.  In  other  respects  she 
was  intensely  feminine  and  human  to  the 
core;  but  beyond  the  impenetrable  bar 
riers  of  that  reserve  Miss  Wingate  could 
not  encroach  for  one  instant.  It  had  made 
her  own  reserve  the  natural  and  inevitable 
course.  Under  no  other  conditions  could 
they  have  reached  their  common  footing. 
164 


Her    Friend 

While  they  were  together  this  had  been  of 
little  importance,  but  now — Miss  Wingate 
was  conscious  of  the  shyness  of  a  school 
girl  as  she  turned  to  her  silent  companion. 

"It  will  soon  be  good-bye,  madame," 
she  said.  "  Must  it  be  a  final  one?  May 
I  not  hope  to  meet  you  again  some  time?" 

The  Slav  hesitated  a  moment,  and  in 
that  pause  Miss  Wingate  found  her  cour 
age. 

"  We  have  been  very  impersonal  during 
this  voyage,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly.  "  We 
have  exchanged  no  confidences,  and  we 
know  nothing  of  each  other.  But  I  have 
not  felt  for  one  moment  that  we  were  stran 
gers.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  known 
and  loved  you  for  years.  I  would  gladly 
have  told  you  at  any  time  the  little  there 
is  to  know  about  myself  if  you  had  seemed 
to  wish  it.  But  I  have  not  desired  to  force 
confidence  on  you  or  from  you;  I  am  not 
trying  to  do  that  now — only" — her  voice 
faltered  a  little — "I  cannot  let  you  slip 
out  of  my  life  without  some  effort  to  keep 
you  there.  Will  you  not  write  to  me,  and 
may  I  not  see  you  some  time  again?" 
165 


Tales  of  Destiny 

She  felt  her  hands  taken  in  a  strong, 
quick  grasp.  The  brown  eyes  looking 
into  her  own  were  dim.  She  turned  her 
head  away  and  looked  again  at  the  dis 
tant  lights,  for  she  knew  at  once  what 
was  coming. 

"  If  I  could  choose  to  -  night  a  friend 
from  all  the  world,"  said  the  voice  that  had 
grown  so  familiar,  "  I  would  say  to  Fate, 
'Let  me  have  this  one/  I  have  never 
liked  any  one  so  much  in  so  short  a  time. 
I  could  trust  you  —  and  I  want  you  — 
but  friendship  is  not  for  me.  I  cannot 
tell  you  why,  though  you  would  under 
stand  only  too  quickly  if  I  could.  Do  you 
see  that  tender  coming  over  the  waves?  It 
is  coming  for  you  and  the  other  passen 
gers.  When  you  are  on  it,  it  will  steam 
away  to  the  French  coast,  and  this  ship 
on  which  I  remain  will  head  towards  the 
North  Sea.  Each  must  go  its  way,  and 
their  ways  are  different.  If  they  kept 
together,  only  one  could  reach  its  destina 
tion.  It  is  so  with  you  and  me.  It  was 
never  meant  that  we  should  hold  together. 
Chance — some  strange,  blessed  chance — 
166 


Her   Friend 

has  given  me  these  few  days  with  you. 
During  them  we  felt,  if  we  did  not  speak 
it,  how  close  to  each  other  we  had  grown. 
I  shall  remember  them  and  you  all  my 
life — and  I  shall  need  that  memory  in  the 
days  to  come." 

Miss  Wingate's  head  sank  lower. 

"You  are  in  trouble.  Is  there — any 
thing  I  can  do?" 

"Nothing!  Or,  yes,  there  is,"  her  friend 
answered,  with  sudden  energy.  "Put  me 
out  of  your  dear  heart  as  soon  as  you  can! 
But  first  say  a  prayer  for  me,  and  if,  in 
the  future,  you  should  hear  something  of 
me  that  hurts  you — do  not  judge.  What 
can  you  know  of  what  my  people  suffer?" 
She  uttered  the  last  words  almost  to  her 
self,  and  then  checked  herself  abruptly. 

"  We  are  growing  very  sentimental  for 
mature  women  with  a  purpose  in  life,  are 
we  not?"  she  added,  in  a  lighter  tone. 
"But  see,  your  tender  is  here,  and  the 
passengers  are  getting  ready  to  leave  the 
ship.  Good-bye — God  bless  you." 

She  kissed  her  slowly  on  each  cheek, 
giving  the  caress  its  highest  eloquence, 
167 


Tales   of  Destiny 

and  Miss  Wingate  returned  it,  almost  sol 
emnly,  like  one  in  a  dream.  She  heard 
the  band  begin  the  swinging  march  which 
was  the  German  ship's  farewell  to  its  pas 
sengers  for  France.  Still  as  in  a  dream 
she  descended  the  gangway  and  took  a 
seat  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  tender.  It 
pulled  away  from  the  great  ship  and  she 
saw  the  line  of  water  widening  between. 
On  the  deck  far  above  the  passengers  hung 
over  the  rail,  waving  their  handkerchiefs 
and  calling  good-bye  to  the  friends  they 
had  made  on  the  voyage.  Their  voices 
grew  fainter  as  the  distance  between  the 
boats  increased.  Finally  only  the  music 
of  the  band  came  softly  across  the  stretch 
of  water,  and  at  last  even  that  was  silent. 
The  sturdy  little  tender  was  puffing  its 
way  to  the  coast;  far  off  on  the  sea  the 
lights  of  the  liner  were  growing  dim  and 
dimmer. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Wingate  felt  in 
gulfed  by  the  most  horrible  loneliness  of 
her  whole  life.  Something  very  like  a 
sob  shook  her.  Then  she  lifted  her  head 
and  the  pride  of  many  generations  came 
168 


Her   Friend 

to  her  rescue.  In  her  life  there  had  been 
singularly  little  heart  interest,  and  for 
that  reason  this  new  friendship  had  been 
a  very  beautiful  and  precious  thing.  But 
it  was  over,  and  she  would  bear  the  dis 
appointment — yes,  the  grief,  for  it  was  a 
grief — with  dignity.  She  reminded  herself 
that  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world  and 
not  a  sentimental  school-girl.  And  hav 
ing  worked  out  this  conclusion  to  her  en 
tire  self-respect,  Miss  Esther  Wingate,  pos 
sessor  of  millions,  dropped  her  head  on 
her  folded  arms  and  cried  for  quite  ten 
minutes. 

She  was  too  strong  and  self-reliant  to 
remain  depressed.  For  a  few  days  she 
let  herself  indulge  in  rather  softening 
reveries,  in  which  her  lost  friend  figured, 
and  she  found  herself  haunting  the  places 
where  she  knew  the  other  had  been,  and 
dreaming  in  the  Louvre  and  the  Luxem 
bourg  before  the  pictures  and  statues  the 
other  woman  loved.  But  very  soon  she 
was  again  looking  at  life  in  her  own  char 
acteristic  fashion  —  a  little  suspiciously, 
more  wistfully,  but  always  bravely.  She 
169 


Tales   of  Destiny 

found  comfort  in  working  among  the  poor; 
"Madame"  had  loved  them,  and  she  felt 
almost  as  if  she  were  doing  something 
for  her  in  this  care  of  the  under  ones  of 
humanity.  She  travelled  slowly  through 
Europe,  finding  work,  and  interest  in  the 
work,  and  successfully  concealing  her  own 
identity  behind  the  name  she  had  chosen. 
It  was  characteristic  of  her  that,  in  visiting 
the  cities  and  the  localities  to  which  Mrs. 
Smith  had  referred  her,  she  made  no  effort 
to  discover  the  identity  of  that  mysterious 
stranger.  Perhaps  she  could  not  have 
succeeded  had  she  tried ;  but  however  easy 
the  task  might  have  been,  it  was  as  im 
possible  for  Miss  Wingate  to  ask  a  ques 
tion  in  the  matter  as  it  would  have  been  to 
read,  uninvited,  another  person's  private 
correspondence.  Mrs.  Smith  wished  to  re 
main  unknown — that  was  sufficient. 

It  was  almost  four  months  later,  and  the 
date  of  her  return  voyage  was  very  near, 
when  she  visited  a  little  city,  the  seat  of  a 
reigning  duke.  Before  she  had  been  there 
two  days  she  was  recognized  by  the  wife  of 
a  high  official  of  the  court,  who  had  met  her 
170 


Her   Friend 

during  a  visit  to  New  York.  Miss  Wingate 
good-naturedly  and  even  willingly  threw 
off  her  incognito  and  reconciled  herself  to 
the  round  of  festivities  which  followed. 
There  had  been  several  occasions  when  it 
had  been  distinctly  inconvenient  to  be 
merely  Miss  Wynne,  an  eccentric  American 
travelling  alone.  She  felt  a  surprisingly 
keen  zest  in  the  return  to  a  sphere  more 
like  her  own.  And  then,  suddenly,  the 
gay  little  town  was  thrilled  by  a  tragedy 
such  as  it  had  never  known  before.  A 
debonair  young  Russian  grand-duke,  a 
guest  at  the  court,  was  murdered  at  the 
very  door  of  the  palace.  The  assassin 
was  captured  at  once,  and  on  the  day  of 
his  crime  news  came  to  the  city  of  three 
other  attempted  assassinations,  two  in 
St.  Petersburg  and  one  in  Moscow,  the 
four  revealing  a  nihilistic  plot  of  far-reach 
ing  power  and  malignity.  Had  all  suc 
ceeded,  the  Russian  throne  might  have 
trembled  on  its  foundations,  but  only  the 
young  grand-duke  fell  a  victim  to  one  of 
the  deepest,  most  ingenious  plots  of  mod 
ern  times.  Within  an  hour  the  great  net- 
171 


Tales    of  Destiny 

work  of  the  Russian  secret-service  system 
was  spread  all  over  Europe.  The  police 
had,  in  each  case,  promptly  arrested  the 
would-be  assassins;  it  was  the  power  back 
of  these  for  which  they  were  reaching  out 
now. 

Miss  Wingate  was  intensely  thrilled. 
She  had  met  and  liked  the  grand-duke — 
a  sweet-faced,  unspoiled  boy;  his  tragic 
fate  seemed  especially  terrible  in  contrast 
with  the  good  he  might  later  have  done  in 
his  high  place.  Her  position  as  the  guest 
of  a  court  official  put  her  in  touch  with 
much  that  was  kept  from  the  general  public. 
She  saw  the  drag-net  closing  in  with  its 
victims,  and  she  met  the  silent  and  terri 
ble  man  who  came  from  St.  Petersburg 
and  drifted  like  a  shadow  round  the  court 
and  through  the  little  city.  His  presence 
brought  awe  to  court  circles;  none  knew 
why  he  was  there  —  this  supreme  power 
of  the  secret  police,  this  man  whom,  of  all 
men,  the  Czar  most  trusted.  Looking  into 
his  cold  eyes,  Miss  Wingate  felt  her  blood 
congeal. 

Late  that  night,  after  a  day  of  great  but 
172 


Her    Friend 

suppressed  excitement,  Miss  Wingate's 
host  explained  many  things  with  care 
and  elaboration  to  his  wife  and  her  guest. 
They  did  not  understand  them  even  after 
this  attention  on  his  part;  they  had  a  con 
fused  sense  of  technical  formalities  and 
foreign  laws  in  unprecedented  complica 
tion,  but  out  of  it  all  they  grasped  the  fact 
that  there  was  to  be  a  legal  hearing  of 
some  kind  the  next  morning,  after  which, 
with  due  ceremony  and  red-tape,  the  capt 
ured  nihilists  were  to  be  escorted  back  to 
St.  Petersburg  by  the  authorities  there  for 
that  purpose.  It  would  be  a  dramatic  oc 
casion,  they  gathered,  and  they  were  priv 
ileged  to  attend,  if  they  wished. 

Miss  Wingate  almost  regretted  that  she 
had  come  the  next  morning,  when  she  found 
herself  conspicuously  placed  in  a  circle  of 
court  officials  and  their  wives,  the  former 
in  all  the  pomp  of  glittering  uniforms.  It 
must  look  to  the  miserable  wretches  ar 
raigned  there,  she  reflected,  very  much  as 
if  the  members  of  her  party  had  gathered 
for  social  enjoyment.  The  officers  were 
paying  much  attention  to  the  rich  Ameri- 
173 


Tales   of  Destiny 

can,  and  the  Parisian-garbed  women  with 
her,  while  decorous  as  the  occasion  de 
manded,  were  obviously  enjoying  a  new 
experience.  Miss  Wingate  looked  at  the 
line  of  victims  of  the  Russian  drag-net. 
She  was  far  from  being  the  type  of  wom 
an  who  feels  a  sentimental  sympathy  for 
criminals;  still,  she  knew  these  defiant 
creatures  were  merely  instruments  in  the 
hands  of  others.  Why  did  they  not  find 
the  instigators  of  the  plot,  she  wondered, 
and  make  them  bear  the  burden  of  their 
crime? 

For  some  time  the  Russian  chief  of  police 
had  been  speaking  to  the  officers  of  her 
party  in  French,  a  language  she  herself 
spoke  perfectly.  She  had  paid  little  at 
tention  to  his  words,  but  suddenly  she 
noticed  that  they  were  pouring  forth  with 
unusual  rapidity.  She  listened  to  his 
closing  sentences: 

"And  we  are  therefore/'  he  concluded, 
"in  possession  of  the  chief  actor  in  this 
entire  movement.  We  have,  in  addition  to 
the  prisoners  sitting  here,  the  person  who 
originated  and  carried  out  the  plot,  who 
174 


Her    Friend 

directed  the  correspondence,  who  assigned 
to  these  poor  dupes  the  hellish  work  they 
were  to  do.  We  have  finally  captured  the 
most  subtle,  the  most  dangerous  character 
in  all  Russia,  whose  hand  has  been  time 
and  again  raised  against  the  Czar,  whose 
influence  has  extended  even  to  America, 
whose  brain  has  inspired  half  the  plots  of 
the  past  fifteen  years,  and  whose  cunning 
has  until  now  eluded  us.  Her  great  family 
and  powerful  influence,  too,  deferred  the 
capture,  but  we  have  in  our  grasp  to-day, 
and  in  this  very  room,  that  arch  fiend,  the 
Princess  Sonia  Alexandrovna. " 

He  brought  out  the  last  words  with  a 
snarl  of  such  savage  triumph  that  Miss 
Wingate  turned  cold  as  she  listened.  His 
face  fascinated  her,  in  its  vindictive  delight. 
For  a  moment  she  could  not  turn  her  eyes 
away  from  it,  but  they  finally  followed 
the  direction  of  his.  He  was  looking  at  a 
little  group  pushing  its  way  to  the  front 
of  the  room.  There  were  several  men 
guarding  the  central  figure  of  the  group, 
but  they  fell  back  when  the  vacant  space 
before  the  court  was  reached  and  Sonia 
175 


Tales   of  Destiny 

Alexandrovna  stepped  forth  alone.  Miss 
Wingate's  slow  glance  travelled  to  her 
face  and  there  rested — petrified! 

She  was  never  quite  sure  what  happened 
after  that.  She  was  dimly  conscious  of  a 
sullen  roar,  which  grew  and  swelled,  and 
of  a  mob  surging  towards  the  front  of  the 
room,  and  of  police  officers  beating  it  back, 
and  of  one  undaunted  figure  with  its  brown 
eyes  looking  unwaveringly  into  space. 
Miss  Wingate  had  heard  that  a  drowning 
man  recalls  all  the  scenes  of  his  past  life 
as  he  goes  down.  Long  afterwards  she 
remembered  that  in  those  few  seconds,  so 
full  of  horror,  she  had  seen  not  the  Princess 
Sonia  Alexandrovna  as  she  stood  at  the 
bar,  but  Sonia  Alexandrovna  as  she  was 
on  shipboard — the  nurse  of  a  dying  baby, 
the  comforter  of  a  broken-hearted  mother, 
the  friend  of  every  unfortunate  on  the 
great  liner,  her  own  friend,  whom  she  had 
learned  to  love.  Picture  after  picture  of 
that  ocean  trip  came  before  Miss  Wingate's 
eyes,  as  if  some  one  had  thrown  them  on 
a  screen  stretched  across  the  dingy  room. 

She  came  back  to  the  present  with  a 
176 


Her    Friend 

long  shudder.  The  crowd  had  been  swept 
back  and  quiet  was  being  restored.  Miss 
Wingate  looked  once  more  at  the  figure 
in  the  foreground.  Sonia  Alexandrovna 
was  looking  at  the  row  of  nihilists  hand 
cuffed  together  near  her.  There  were  five 
of  them,  and  as  her  eyes  passed  in  turn 
from  one  to  another,  each  bent  his  head, 
while  tears  streamed  down  his  cheeks. 
It  was  a  beautiful  look  she  gave  them — 
such  a  look  as  she  had  turned  on  the  dying 
child  and  the  crushed  mother  and  on  Esther 
Wingate  herself  when  she  had  put  away 
her  offered  friendship.  As  if  some  spring 
had  been  touched  in  her  own  nature,  Es 
ther's  tears  welled  forth,  and  as  they  fell 
the  prisoner  turned  suddenly  and  recog 
nized  her.  Their  eyes  met  and  clung 
together.  Miss  Wingate  saw  the  other 
through  a  heavy  mist,  but,  to  her  excited 
senses,  the  brown  eyes  shining  from  it 
seemed  to  repeat  the  message  of  that  for 
mer  farewell:  "Do  not  judge;  how  can 
you  know  what  my  people  suffer?" 

An  officer  touched  her  on  the  shoulder, 
and   Sonia   Alexandrovna   turned   slowly 
177 


Tales   of  Destiny 

away.  For  just  one  moment  she  faltered 
and  her  knees  seemed  to  fail  her  as  she 
walked  under  the  eyes  of  her  friend  down 
the  narrow  passage  formed  by  the  two 
lines  of  police.  The  next  she  had  pulled 
herself  together  and  moved  steadily  forward 
with  her  characteristic,  superb  carriage, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left. 

And  then,  as  if  that  sight  were  not  in 
itself  enough  to  bear,  the  court-room  seemed 
to  fade  away,  and  Esther  Wingate  saw 
the  woman  who  had  stolen  into  her  heart 
as  no  other  friend  had  ever  done,  making 
her  last  long  journey  on  this  earth;  walk 
ing  on  and  on  and  on,  under  snow  and 
bitter  sleet,  over  bare,  frozen  earth,  with 
captors  who  wrenched  her  to  her  feet  when 
she  stumbled  and  fell;  but  borne  forward 
through  it  all  by  indomitable  love  for  her 
people  to  the  dumb,  living  death  of  Siberia. 


Miss  Underbill's   Lesson 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 


?HE  city  editor  of  the  New 
York  Searchlight  was  in  an 
exceedingly  bad  humor.  This 
condition,  neither  new  nor 
startling,  was  unpleasant  and 
had  an  immediate  effect  upon  the  mem 
bers  of  his  staff.  Even  Hawkins,  the  star 
reporter,  who  was  believed  to  fear  no  man, 
after  a  glance  at  his  chief's  clouded  brow 
subdued  the  merry  whistle  with  which 
he  had  entered  the  city  room.  The  other 
men  wrote  busily,  or  ostentatiously  clipped 
from  newspapers  extracts  supposed  to  bear 
on  their  assignments.  One  or  two,  who 
had  finished  their  "stories/'  wrote  their 
initials  many  times  on  their  copy  paper, 
ending  the  capitals  with  elaborate  and 
painstaking  nourishes.  The  office  -  boys 
181 


Tales    of  Destiny 

remained  at  a  respectful  distance  from 
the  desk,  but  kept  their  eyes  and  ears  wide 
open,  that  no  signal  or  order  of  the  editorial 
autocrat  might  escape  them. 

Only  one  person  in  the  room  remained 
apparently  oblivious  of  the  displeasure  of 
the  nervous  young  man  who  was  now 
striding  up  and  down  between  the  rows 
of  desks,  his  hands  deep-thrust  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  teeth  viciously  chewing 
a  corner  of  his  mustache.  Miss  Kath 
arine  Underbill  continued  with  much  se 
renity  the  ungrateful  task  of  clearing  out 
her  desk — a  duty  which  usually  presented 
itself  at  the  busiest  and  most  inopportune 
times,  and  gave  her  no  mental  rest  until 
she  had  accomplished  it.  The  perform 
ance  was  not  novel — she  had  gone  through 
it  several  times  a  year  for  three  years — 
but  it  never  lost  interest  and  charm  for  her 
fellow  -  reporters.  Usually  they  gathered 
round  her,  watching  the  stationery,  notes, 
and  manuscript  pile  up  before  her,  or  rescu 
ing  with  some  excitement  forgotten  articles 
of  their  own  which  they  had  lent  to  her  in 
the  remote  past.  They  also  found  a  mild 
182 


Miss  Underbill's   Lesson 

satisfaction  in  reminding  her  that  the 
dust-covered  photograph  of  a  sweet-faced 
old  lady  in  gray  was  the  one  for  which 
the  obituary  department  had  been  calling 
for  weeks,  while  the  small  water -color 
beside  it,  borrowed  from  a  distinguished 
artist  months  ago  for  reproduction,  had 
been  loaned  on  her  fervid  promise  to  re 
turn  it  the  next  day. 

These  episodes,  mortifying  to  a  sen 
sitive  nature,  did  not  disturb  the  poise  of 
Miss  Underbill.  She  frequently  remarked 
that  great  minds  should  not  be  burdened 
by  details,  and  that  the  exhaustive  work 
of  bringing  in  a  "  big  beat "  every  day  or 
two  banished  trivialities  from  her  thoughts. 
She  had  further  intimated  that  really  loyal 
fellow-workers,  such  as  hers  pretended  to 
be,  would  themselves  have  attended  to  the 
small  matter  of  returning  these  things 
for  her,  finding  their  compensation  in  the 
credit  she  was  constantly  reflecting  upon 
the  staff. 

The  men  grinned  cheerfully,  but  failed 
to  act  on  the  suggestion,  and  so  the  dust 
and  borrowed  articles  and  photographs 
183 


Tales   of  Destiny 

continued  to  accumulate,  while  Miss  Un 
derbill  gained  the  reputation  of  a  "corking 
good  reporter/'  but  one  who  lacked  some 
of  those  finer  qualities  which  so  ennoble 
the  nature  of  woman. 

Even  the  most  loyal  of  her  many  friends 
admitted  that  she  was  careless,  sometimes 
seemingly  unscrupulous,  and  often  so 
sarcastic  as  to  prove  that  her  sense  of 
humor  was  a  trifle  too  developed.  Bran 
don,  the  city  editor,  never  gave  her  as 
signments  demanding  the  writing  of  "  teary 
tales,"  as  Hawkins  called  them.  "Teary 
tales"  were  news  stories  full  of  sadness. 
Henshaw,  who  wrote  the  greater  number 
of  those  published  in  The  Searchlight,  was 
fond  of  reading  poignant  extracts  from 
them  to  any  one  who  would  listen,  and  it 
was  a  prime  diversion  of  the  staff  to  have 
Henshaw  favor  Miss  Underbill  with  an  es 
pecially  "teary"  bit,  and  hear  her  "punct 
ure  the  pathos"  with  an  audaciously  per 
tinent  but  unfeeling  remark. 

To-day,  owing  to  the  tense  atmosphere 
of  the  office,  she  was  uninterrupted  at  the 
task  of  setting  her  desk  in  order  and  was 
184 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

making  commendable  headway  in  it  when 
the  city  editor  stopped  abruptly  at  her 
side.  In  the  last  moment  of  his  restless 
wandering  around  the  room  his  expression 
had  changed  from  the  irritated  look  of  a 
worried  man  to  the  alert  masterfulness  of 
the  editor  who  has  thought  out  his  prob 
lem  and  sees  the  way  clear  before  him. 

"I  have  something  for  you  to  do,"  he 
said,  briefly.  "Come  to  my  desk  and  I'll 
tell  you  about  it." 

Miss  Underbill  rose  with  a  sigh  and 
followed  him.  She  was  not  in  an  indus 
trious  mood,  and  she  knew  by  the  city 
editor's  expression  that  it  was  no  light 
task  he  had  for  her.  His  first  words  deep 
ened  this  conviction. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  keep  the  run 
of  politics,"  he  said,  "  and  it  isn't  necessary 
that  you  should;  but  if  you  can  help  us  to 
pull  off  this  thing  I  have  in  mind  it  will 
be  the  biggest  local  story  we've  had  in 
years.  It  will  knock  the  town  off  its  feet. 
I've  got  as  far  as  I  can,  unless  you  can 
help  me  out.  There's  a  woman  in  the 
case — of  course." 

185 


Tales   of  Destiny 

Miss  Underbill  listened  without  enthu 
siasm,  slightly  annoyed  by  the  editor's 
cool  assumption  of  her  political  ignorance. 

"You  know,  I  suppose/'  he  continued, 
ironically,  "that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a 
city  campaign,  with  three  tickets  in  the 
field.  There  is  the  Republican  ticket, 
headed  by  Van  Nest;  the  Democratic 
ticket,  headed  by  Knowles;  and  the  Citi 
zens'  ticket,  made  for  the  virtuous  who 
are  yelling  for  reform.  They  have  the 
only  good  man  of  the  lot — James  Ken- 
drick,  the  philanthropist,  and  it  looks  now 
as  if  he  would  be  elected.  The  Search 
light  is  working  for  him.  His  prospects  are 
good  enough  to  frighten  the  Democratic 
and  Republican  leaders  badly,  and  they're 
up  to  some  trick  to  beat  him.  The  bosses 
of  the  two  parties  are  hobnobbing  at  a 
great  rate  and  they  are  probably  going 
to  combine  in  a  deal  to  defeat  Kendrick. 
That  is,"  the  city  editor  continued,  pa 
tiently  keeping  his  discourse  down  to  the 
level  of  a  woman's  intelligence,  "each  of 
the  two  parties  would  rather  see  the  other 
win  than  have  Kendrick  get  in  with  his 
1 86 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

reform  ideas;  so  they  are  said  to  have 
joined  forces  against  him.  Then,  which 
ever  party  gets  into  power  will  divide  the 
plums  with  the  other.  I  suppose  this  is 
clear?" 

"Yes;  but  where  does  the  woman  come 
in?"  asked  Miss  Underbill,  tersely. 

"Right  here.  We've  known  for  some 
time  that  the  two  big  Democratic  and  Re 
publican  bosses  have  been  fixing  up  some 
scheme,  but  we  haven't  been  able  to  prove 
it.  A  few  days  ago  a  fool  clerk  in  the 
office  of  Briggs,  the  Republican  leader, 
boasted  to  his  chums  that  he  knew  all  the 
inside  facts  of  the  case,  and  had  himself 
hired  a  room  at  the  Franklin  Hotel,  where 
the  bosses  meet  at  night  and  do  their  talk 
ing.  One  of  the  chums  promptly  gave  me 
the  tip  and  we  got  after  the  fool  clerk. 
Of  course  he  denied  the  whole  business. 
At  first  he  even  disclaimed  having  said 
anything  at  all.  Then,  when  confronted 
with  the  men  he  had  said  it  to,  he  tried 
to  squirm  out  with  the  bluff  that  he  had 
just  been  bragging  —  telling  tall  stories 
to  make  the  fellows  think  he  was  a  big 
187 


Tales   of  Destiny 

man.  And  there  he  stands;  we  can't 
shake  him.  But  he  has  a  wife.  She  is 
the  woman  in  the  case." 

The  city  editor  stopped.  Miss  Under- 
hill,  who  had  been  marvelling  over  this 
long  recital  on  the  part  of  an  individual 
usually  so  taciturn,  looked  up  quickly. 
"Did  she  betray  him?"  she  asked. 

"No,  but  she  will,"  asserted  the  young 
man,  dryly,  "without  knowing  she  is  do 
ing  it.  They  are  an  ignorant  pair.  She 
was  a  working  -  woman  of  some  sort  —  a 
box -maker,  I  think,  at  Brynsville.  His 
salary  is  about  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  and 
they're  both  afraid  he'll  be  discharged  and 
lose  it.  Of  course,  she  must  know  the 
truth,  and  if  we  get  her  here  we  may  be 
able  to  pull  it  out  of  her;  and,  if  we  can't,  I 
have  something  else  up  my  sleeve.  Here 
is  where  you  come  in.  Get  her  here  on 
any  pretext.  It's  two  now.  I  want  you 
to  have  her  at  the  Franklin  Hotel  at  six 
this  evening.  I'll  meet  you  there  with 
Briscoe  and  White,  and  we'll  make  her 
tell  all  she  knows.  Her  husband  doesn't 
get  home  till  seven,  so  you  won't  have 
188 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

him  to  contend  with.  We  won't  detain 
her  more  than  an  hour,  and  we'll  see 
that  she  gets  back  safely  by  nine.  Think 
you  can  do  it?  You  can  if  any  one 
can,"  the  city  editor  added,  with  tact. 

Miss  Underhill  modestly  agreed  that 
she  could.  She  was  interested  in  the 
case  by  this  time,  and  realized  her  good 
fortune  in  being  connected  with  a  "  story  " 
of  which  she  clearly  saw  the  journalistic 
possibilities.  She  planned  her  campaign 
as  she  got  on  the  suburban  train  and  trav 
elled  towards  Brynsville. 

"  I'll  have  to  convince  her  that  her  hus 
band  is  in  serious  trouble,  and  that  by 
appearing  before  the  committee  she  may 
be  able  to  help  him  out  of  it,"  she  reflect 
ed,  dispassionately.  "  I'll  bring  her  there, 
somehow,  and,  if  I  do,  and  we  get  the  story, 
they'll  give  me  the  vacation  I've  been 
asking  for.  I  simply  cannot  work  an 
other  month  without  a  rest." 

It  was  not  hard  to  find  the  house  in 

Brynsville  where  the  "fool  clerk"  lived. 

It  was  a  poor  little  house  with  pathetic 

efforts  at  decoration,  shown  by  a  "trans- 

189 


Tales   of  Destiny 

parency"  in  the  window,  and  muslin  cur 
tains  tied  with  ribbons  which  the  sun  had 
faded.  The  "fool  clerk's"  wife  came  to 
the  door  herself.  Miss  Underhill  knew 
it  was  she  as  soon  as  she  saw  the  pretty, 
worried  little  face  and  the  worn  shirt-waist 
and  tie  that  were  none  too  clean.  The 
woman's  eyes  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
crying,  and  the  anxious  expression  in 
them  deepened  as  Miss  Underhill  asked 
for  a  few  moments*  conversation  with  her. 
"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  concern 
ing  your  husband,"  she  said. 

She  followed  the  hostess  into  the  small 
parlor.  On  the  centre-table  lay  the  in 
evitable  album,  and  an  ornate  clock  stood 
in  lonely  splendor  on  the  mantel -tree. 
From  the  floor  above  came  the  fretful  cry 
ing  of  a  child. 

Miss  Underhill  came  to  the  point  with 
business-like  directness.  "Your  husband, 
Mrs.  Williams,  is  in  serious  trouble,  as 
you  know/'  she  began.  "He  is  getting 
into  it  deeper  by  telling  a  lot  of  contradic 
tory  stories.  Circumstances  make  the  mat 
ter  very  important,  and  an  investigation 
190 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

is  in  progress.  To-day,  at  six  o'clock,  a 
committee  of  men  are  to  meet  at  the  Frank 
lin  Hotel  to  look  into  it.  You  must  be 
there,  and  they  have  sent  me  to  bring 
you.  They  will  not  keep  you  long,  and 
I'll  see  myself  that  you  are  safely  home 
by  nine  o'clock." 

The  wife  of  the  "fool  clerk"  twisted 
her  fingers  nervously  in  her  lap.  Slow 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes ;  but  with  a  cer 
tain  dignity  which  surprised  the  reporter, 
she  kept  them  from  falling.  "I  can't  go," 
she  said,  weakly.  "They  wanted  me  be 
fore,  and  Jim  told  me  not  to  pay  no  at 
tention  to  'em.  He  said  I  was  to  keep 
out  of  this  or  I'd  make  it  worse." 

Miss  Underhill  smiled  reassuringly. 
"You  couldn't  make  it  any  worse  than  it 
is,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Williams  has  done 
everything  possible  in  that  line.  Come 
now,  Mrs.  Williams,"  she  urged,  "you 
must  admit  that  your  husband  has  made 
a  bad  mess  of  this.  Under  the  circum 
stances,  his  advice  is  not  worth  much. 
On  the  other  hand,  you  may  perhaps  clear 
everything  by  a  few  words.  The  com- 
191 


Tales   of  Destiny 

mittee  won't  hurt  you;  they  will  merely 
ask  you  some  questions.  You  don't  have 
to  answer  them,  if  you  don't  think  it  will 
help  matters." 

The  other  woman  hung  back.  "Jim 
said  I  oughtn't  to  go/'  she  repeated,  dog 
gedly,  "  an',  anyhow,  I  don't  know  nothin' 
about  it.  I  can't  tell  'em  nothin'." 

"Well,  then,  tell  them  that,"  retorted  the 
reporter,  good-naturedly.  "  Tell  them  any 
thing  you  please,  but  you  must  tell  them 
yourself.  They  won't  be  contented  until 
they  see  you,  and  you  might  as  well  come 
and  have  it  over  with.  You  may  be  doing 
your  husband  a  great  injury  by  refusing 
this  little  thing." 

Mrs.  Williams  weakened.  "I  dunno," 
she  said,  doubtfully.  "  I  can't  do  no  harm, 
I  s'pose,  an'  if  I  go,  mebby  they'll  leave 
me  alone.  But  I  wish  I  could  send  a  telly- 
graf  to  Jim  first." 

Miss  Underbill  rose,  promptly  taking 
advantage  of  the  concession.  "You  come 
right  along  with  me/'  she  said,  cheer 
fully.  "Never  mind  about  the  telegram. 
You'll  be  home  soon  after  Mr.  Will- 
192 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

iams  and  you  can  tell  him  all  about  it 
then/' 

Mrs.  Williams  clung  to  her  chair.  "I 
s'pose  mother  could  take  care  of  the  baby/' 
she  hazarded,  looking  questioningly  at 
this  positive  young  woman  who  seemed 
to  decide  everything  so  quickly. 

"  Of  course  she  can,"  agreed  the  reporter; 
"  she'll  love  to.  You  know  she's  never  so 
happy  as  when  she's  with  the  baby,"  she 
added,  recklessly.  "Get  your  hat  and 
coat  and  I'll  help  you  with  them.  We 
must  catch  that  5.10  train." 

The  "fool  clerk's"  wife  still  demurred. 
She  thought  she  ought  to  dress.  She 
felt  she  should  write  a  note  to  Jim.  She 
would  like  to  put  the  baby  to  sleep  first. 
Perhaps  she  ought  to  "eat  a  bite"  if  she 
was  to  be  back  late. 

Miss  Underbill  swept  her  objections  away 
with  a  whirlwind  of  cheery  comment.  She 
pointed  out  the  uselessness  of  a  fresh  shirt 
waist  under  a  jacket,  promised  a  good 
dinner  in  town,  and  laughingly  chided 
the  selfishness  that  would  deny  a  loving 
grandma  the  pleasure  of  putting  baby  to 
13  193 


Tales   of  Destiny 

sleep.  Then  she  hustled  the  little  wom 
an  into  her  coat  and  got  her  on  board  the 
train  in  the  nick  of  time.  It  had  all  been 
surprisingly  easy,  and  she  was  comfortably 
complacent  over  her  success.  She  chatted 
cheerfully  as  the  train  whirled  Mrs.  Will 
iams  to  the  inquisition,  and  learned  much 
about  Jim  and  the  baby  and  other  details 
of  domestic  life  in  the  Brynsville  cottage 
which  did  not  especially  interest  her  but 
helped  to  keep  her  "subject"  from  dan 
gerous  reflections. 

When  they  reached  the  Franklin  Hotel 
the  "committee"  was  waiting,  and  a  light 
flashed  into  the  city  editor's  eyes  as  he 
saw  the  shabby  little  figure  in  Miss  Under 
bill's  wake.  He  was  so  pleased  that  he 
could  afford  to  be  considerate.  "You  and 
Mrs.  Williams  haven't  dined,  I  know," 
he  said,  "and  neither  have  we.  So  we 
can  all  have  dinner  together  while  we  are 
talking." 

The  small  private  dining-room  to  which 

they  were  escorted  was  bright  and  cosey. 

Under  its  influence  and  that  of  the  food 

Mrs.   Williams's  diffidence  wore  off.     She 

194 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

forgot  to  watch  Miss  Underbill's  table 
etiquette  as  a  guide  to  her  own,  and  she 
answered  simply  the  adroit  questions  the 
committee  began  to  ask  her.  It  soon  be 
came  evident,  even  to  the  most  suspicious, 
that  she  had  spoken  truthfully  when  she 
asserted  that  she  "didn't  know  nothin" 
more  about  the  case  than  they  themselves. 
Williams  had  neither  boasted  to  nor  con 
fided  in  his  wife,  though  he  had  made  her 
life  a  burden  by  his  irritability  and  ner 
vousness  since  the  denouement. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Williams,  I'll  tell  you  how 
we  can  get  at  the  truth  of  this,"  said  Bran 
don,  leaning  forward  with  his  most  brilliant 
smile.  He  was  a  handsome  young  man, 
and  even  the  faded  eyes  of  the  "  fool  clerk's  " 
wife  showed  that  she  thought  so  as  she 
looked  at  him.  A  little  color  had  come 
into  her  cheeks.  She  had  smiled  once  or 
twice  with  unexpected  girlishness.  Her 
fears  of  the  terrible  committee  were  quite 
dispelled  by  this  atmosphere  of  friendli 
ness.  She  smiled  back  at  Brandon  in  a 
confiding  fashion  that  almost  caused  a 
twinge  of  compunction  in  that  young  man. 
195 


Tales   of  Destiny 

"Here's  my  idea/'  he  said,  lightly. 
"  Mr.  Briggs  has  a  private  secretary  named 
Van  Alen.  I  understand  that  you  have 
met  him,  and  that  he  has  been  at  your 
house  several  times/'  He  looked  at  her 
for  confirmation. 

"Yes,  he  has,"  she  said,  slowly.  "He 
always  seemed  to  like  Jim,  an'  he's  been 
good  to  all  of  us — the  baby,  too.  He  got 
Jim's  pay  raised  last  year,  and  he  was 
goin'  to  try  to  get  more  for  him  when  Jim 
went  an'  got  into  this  trouble — "  She 
stopped  and  her  lips  quivered.  Brandon 
smiled  at  her  reassuringly. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  he  said, 
"you're  coming  out  of  this  all  right,  es 
pecially  if  you  can  help  us  to  get  at  the 
truth  of  it.  Here  is  what  I  want  you  to 
do.  Go  yourself  to  Mr.  Van  Alen  now, 
and  say  you  want  to  have  a  little  private 
talk  with  him.  He  boards  at  the  Evans 
House,  only  two  blocks  from  here,  and  the 
chances  are  that  he  will  be  there  at  dinner. 
When  you  are  alone  with  him,  tell  him 
that  you've  come  because  you're  afraid 
your  husband  is  about  to  lose  his  position. 
196 


Miss  Underbill's  Lesson 

Say  you  are  sorry  that  your  husband 
told  what  he  should  not  have  told — be 
sure  to  say  it  just  this  way.  And  say 
that  if  he  gives  your  husband  another 
chance,  Mr.  Williams  will  deserve  it,  for 
he  has  learned  a  bitter  lesson  and  will 
never  again  betray  the  confidence  of  his 
employers.  Then,  remember  every  word 
that  Mr.  Van  Alen  says  to  you,  and  come 
back  and  tell  it  to  us.  But  of  course  you 
must  not  mention  us,  or  let  Mr.  Van  Alen 
know  that  any  one  suggested  your  going 
to  him.  He  will  think  it  perfectly  natural 
that  you  should  intercede  for  your  hus 
band,  especially  as  he  has  been  kind  to 
Mr.  Williams." 

Miss  Underbill  looked  at  the  handsome 
face  of  the  city  editor  with  keen  interest. 
This  then  was  what  he  had  up  his  sleeve! 
He  would  use  the  little  woman  as  a  cat's- 
paw,  and  through  her  win  an  admission 
from  Van  Alen,  when  he  was  wholly  off 
his  guard,  that  her  husband  had  enjoyed 
the  confidence  of  Briggs  and  had  betrayed 
it.  It  was  a  plan  very  characteristic  of 
Mr.  Brandon. 

197 


Tales   of  Destiny 

Mrs.  Williams  protested  feebly.  "But 
mebbe  Jim  didn't  do  it,"  she  said.  "I 
'ain't  never  thought  he  done  it." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Brandon,  cheer 
fully.  "You  put  it  just  the  way  I  say. 
If  you  don't  admit  Jim's  guilt,  Van  Alen 
won't  trust  either  of  you.  And  if  he 
should  ask  you  if  any  one  sent  you,  say 
no.  Nobody  has  sent  you,  for  I've  only 
asked  you  to  go.  And  be  sure  to  remem 
ber  exactly  what  he  says,  and  come  right 
here  and  tell  me.  You  should  be  back  in 
half  an  hour — an  hour  at  the  latest,  even 
if  you  have  to  wait  for  him.  I  will  stay 
here  till  you  come." 

He  watched  her  go,  with  a  quizzical 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  They  had  left  the 
dining-room  and  were  in  one  of  the  small 
reception-rooms  giving  on  the  avenue. 
Looking  out  of  the  window,  Miss  Under 
bill  could  follow  the  progress  of  the  thin, 
shabby  figure,  that  was  pushed  and 
jostled  by  the  crowd,  until  it  was  out  of 
sight. 

'  That  doesn't  seem  quite  fair,  Mr.  Bran 
don,"  said  White.  He  was  walking  ner- 
198 


Miss   Underbill's  Lesson 

vously  back  and  forth,  looking  unusually 
grave.  Brandon  threw  up  his  head. 

"Had  to,"  he  said,  tersely.  "Our  last 
card."  He  drew  a  small  note-book  from 
his  pocket  and  plunged  into  its  pages  with 
no  other  expression  than  that  of  concen 
tration  on  his  smooth  face. 

It  was  almost  an  hour  before  Mrs.  Will 
iams  returned,  but  the  committee  did  not 
complain  of  that  when  they  heard  her  story. 
Van  Alen,  as  unsuspecting  as  was  hoped, 
and  full  of  sympathy  for  the  wife  of  the 
young  fellow  he  wished  to  befriend,  had 
dropped  several  careless  remarks  that  were 
convincing  in  their  bearing  on  the  case. 

Mrs.  Williams  was  a  little  alarmed  when 
she  was  asked  to  write  these  out  and 
swear  to  them  before  a  notary  who  was 
called  in.  She  looked  at  Miss  Underbill 
for  encouragement,  and  that  young  person 
promptly  gave  it  in  a  series  of  easy  nods. 
Then  she  took  her  weary  charge  out  to 
the  sylvan  home  at  Brynsville  and  left  her 
there  to  make  such  explanations  as  she 
could  to  "Jim."  Jim  was  hanging  over 
the  gate  when  they  arrived,  and  the  ex- 
199 


Tales  of  Destiny 

planation  had  begun  before  Miss  Under 
bill  was  out  of  hearing  on  her  way  to  the 
station. 

The  night  was  a  busy  one  in  the  office 
of  The  Searchlight,  but  morning  brought 
reward,  for  Brandon's  "  big  story  "  filled  the 
first  page,  and  all  New  York  discussed  it 
at  the  breakfast-table.  That  shrewd  young 
man's  assertion  that  it  would  "  knock  the 
town  off  its  feet"  was  wholly  realized, 
and  there  were  lamentations  and  woe  and 
much  bad  language  in  the  offices  of  the 
bosses. 

Miss  Underbill  had  an  out-of-town  as 
signment,  and  was  in  the  office  but  a  few 
moments  —  long  enough,  however,  to  re 
ceive  congratulations  on  her  work  in  con 
nection  with  the  "biggest  beat"  for  years. 

When  she  reached  her  rooms  that  night 
it  was  after  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  gas 
in  the  halls  of  the  big  apartment -house 
burned  low.  As  she  made  her  way  to  the 
door,  she  stumbled  over  a  figure  crouch 
ing  at  the  threshold.  It  stood  up,  and  in 
the  pale  reflection  of  the  dimly  burning 
light,  she  saw  the  pallid  face  and  shabby 
200 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

figure  of  Mrs.  Williams.  Her  clothes  were 
still  damp,  for  it  had  been  raining,  and 
her  face  was  swollen  and  distorted  by  much 
weeping.  Resigning  herself  to  the  situa 
tion  without  a  word,  Miss  Underbill  un 
locked  the  door  and  ushered  her  in.  She 
drew  her  to  a  comfortable  chair,  placed 
her  in  it,  and  bustled  about  to  light  the  gas 
and  draw  the  shades.  Then  she  poured 
sherry  into  a  glass,  put  it  on  a  tray  with 
some  biscuits,  and  set  the  modest  refection 
before  the  drooping  woman  seated  near 
the  open  fire. 

"Drink  that/'  she  said,  with  as  much 
cheerfulness  as  she  could  muster.  "  I  sup 
pose  you  came  to  have  it  out  with  me, 
and  you  may  say  just  what  you  please 
after  you  get  warm  and  have  had  some 
thing  to  eat  and  drink.  I'm  sorry  you 
had  to  wait  so  long.  I  have  been  out  of 
town  all  day." 

Mrs.  Williams  pushed  the  tray  aside 
as  if  the  food  were  poison.  "I've  been 
here  since  four  o'clock  this  afternoon/' 
she  said,  "  and  I  'ain't  had  a  mouthful  all 
day.  But  I'd  starve  before  I  eat  anything 
201 


Tales   of  Destiny 

you  give  me.     I  ain't  quite  so  far  gone 
as  that,  yet." 

Miss  Underhill  flushed  with  vexation. 
"You  can  suit  yourself,  Mrs.  Williams, 
about  that,"  she  said.  "It  isn't  much, 
but  it's  honestly  earned." 

The  remark  was  unfortunate.  The  thin, 
meek  woman  of  yesterday,  who  had  looked 
to  her  for  tuition  and  judgment,  was  trans 
formed  by  her  v/rongs  into  an  arraigning 
judge  not  to  be  ignored. 

"  Honestly  earned!"  she  flung  out.  "  By 
honest  work  like  what  you  done  yester 
day,  I  s'pose.  Honest  work  that  ruins 
the  lives  of  hard-working  men  an'  inno 
cent  women  an'  little  babies.  That's  why 
I'm  here — to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  such 
honest  work,  an'  what  it's  done  to  me  an' 
mine.  I  says  to  myself,  'I  may  have  to 
wait  all  night,  but  she  sha'n't  sleep  till  she 
knows  what  her  trickery  done  for  me  this 
day.'  It's  cost  me  my  husband  an'  my 
home.  It  may  cost  me  my  baby  before  I 
git  through  with  it.  But  I  s'pose  you've 
made  a  few  dollars  out  of  it,  so  what  do 
you  care?" 

202 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

Her  anger  flickered  and  went  out, 
drowned  by  the  wave  of  woe  that  rolled 
over  her.  She  began  to  cry,  gaspingly. 
Miss  Underbill  felt  suddenly  sick  at  heart 
and  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"Come,"  she  said,  at  last,  "tell  me  ex 
actly  what  has  happened,  and  perhaps  I 
can  help  you.  I  may  not  be  as  bad  as 
you  think." 

There  was  bitter  rebellion  in  the  eyes 
that  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  grimy 
handkerchief.  "  What's  happened?"  she 
repeated,  bitterly.  "There  ain't  nothin' 
that  hasn't  happened,  I  guess.  Soon's  I 
told  Jim  last  night  what  I  done,  he  got 
me  on  the  train  an'  took  me  right  back  to 
the  city  to  see  Mr.  Van  Alen.  Jim  knowed 
it  would  all  be  in  the  paper,  an'  he  thought 
he  could  keep  it  out.  He  wa'n't  home, 
nor  nowhere,  seems  like,  an'  'bout  one  in 
the  mornin'  we  had  to  give  up  an'  come 
home  'cause  Jim  didn't  know  what  else 
to  do  next.  First  thing  this  morning  he 
got  your  paper,  and  there  it  was  an'  made 
the  very  worst  of.  Jim  simply  acted  crazy- 
like.  He — he  struck  me!  He  never  done 
203 


Tales   of  Destiny 

that  before,  an'  he  ordered  me  out  of  the 
house,  an'  swore  he'd  git  a  divorce.  He 
said  mother  could  stay  a  day  or  two  to 
take  care  of  baby.  Then  he  went  out; 
and  I  never  budged.  I  thought  he'd  git 
over  the  worst  of  it.  But  he  come  back 
at  two  and  got  worse  than  ever  when  he 
seen  me.  He  said  he  had  everything 
fixed  so  the  paper  couldn't  have  found 
out  nothin'  if  I  hadn't  mixed  up  in  it. 
Then  he  took  me  by  the  shoulders  and 
shoved  me  out  of  the  house,  and  said  he 
never  wanted  to  look  at  me  again.  I  said 
I'd  take  the  baby,  an'  he  said  no  court 
would  give  a  baby  to  a  woman  that  was 
sich  a  fo-fool!" 

She  ended  the  last  word  with  a  childish 
wail,  but  Miss  Underbill's  sense  of  humor 
was  obscured.  It  was  unpleasant,  this 
midnight  arraignment,  and  certainly  not 
funny.  She  listened  silently. 

"  An'  all  I  got  to  say  to  you  is  that  you 
done  the  whole  thing,"  continued  the  other 
woman,  resuming  with  new  indignation. 
"  You  ought  to  be  the  one  that's  punished, 
not  me.  You  come  to  me  so  pleasant  an' 
204 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

smilin'  that  I  took  a  fancy  to  you  right 
away.  It  seemed  's  if  anything  you  said 
must  be  right.  I  wouldn't  'a'  gone  with 
any  one  else.  I  trusted  you.  I  thought, 
'  She's  all  right ;  she'll  look  out  for  me  an' 
see  that  I  don't  do  nothin'  wrong.'  An' 
when  I  looked  at  you  that  time  just  before 
I  signed  that  paper  you  nodded.  I  wouldn't 
'a'  signed  it  if  you  hadn't.  But  I  was  sure 
you  was  lookin'  out  for  me,  because  you 
said  you  would.  And  what  was  it?  Trick 
ery — nothin'  but  foolin'  me  all  the  way 
through." 

She  rose  suddenly  and  stood  before  an 
oil  portrait  that  hung  over  the  mantel. 
It  represented  a  beautiful  woman  with  a 
little  girl  four  years  old  leaning  against 
her  knee.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  they 
were  mother  and  daughter. 

"Is  that  your  mother?"  demanded  the 
wife  of  the  "fool  clerk." 

"Yes." 

"An' it's  you  with  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Underbill,  humbly. 

"Well,  if  she's  alive  and  you  love  her, 
I  hope  she  don't  know  what  kind  o'  work 
205 


Tales   of  Destiny 

you're  doin'/'  remarked  the  woman,  al 
most  as  if  hurling  a  curse  at  her  deceiver 
before  her  mother's  portrait. 

Miss  Underhill  shrank  as  if  she  had 
been  struck.  An  idea  resolutely  kept  down 
in  one's  mind  has  staggering  force  when 
brutally  uttered  by  a  stranger's  voice. 

A  paragraph  in  one  of  her  mother's 
recent  letters  flashed  across  Miss  Under 
hill  's  memory  with  burning  appositeness. 

"You  know  my  opinion  of  'yellow  jour 
nalism/  darling/'  the  loved  hand  had 
written.  "I  cannot  endure  the  idea  of 
your  being  identified  with  a  newspaper 
of  that  tendency.  But  I  know  my  dear 
child  too  well  to  feel  that  she  will  have  any 
hand  in  it,  or  do  what  she  should  not  do. 
Still,  I  tremble  for  its  influence  on  you, 
and  shall  thank  God  when  you  secure  a 
position  on  a  higher  grade  of  journal." 

Miss  Underhill  walked  abruptly  away 
for  a  moment,  and  returned,  bringing  with 
her  the  despised  tray,  this  time  contain 
ing  two  glasses  and  a  double  supply  of 
biscuits.  She  set  it  down  before  her  guest. 
"Now,  Mrs.  Williams,"  she  said,  quietly, 
206 


Miss   Underbill's   Lesson 

"  you  must  admit  that  you  have  said  every 
thing  you  can  have  to  say.  You  couldn't 
hurt  me  more  if  you  talked  all  night.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  will  admit  that  you  are 
justified  in  every  word  you  have  uttered. 
I  have  done  you  a  wrong,  and  I  am  sorry 
for  it.  I  will  make  what  amends  I  can. 
In  the  mean  time  I  think  we  shall  both 
feel  better  if  we  eat  something  while  I  tell 
you  my  plans." 

She  smiled  the  sympathetic  smile  that 
had  won  many  friends.  Mrs.  Williams 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  lifted  the  glass 
to  her  lips. 

''That's  right,"  said  the  girl,  heartily. 
She  went  to  her  desk  and  took  her  check 
book  out  of  the  pigeon-hole  where  she 
kept  it.  The  stubs  showed  a  bank  bal 
ance  of  one  hundred  and  ten  dollars — 
not  a  large  sum  for  a  young  person  whose 
earnings  had  averaged  fifty  dollars  a  week 
for  the  last  three  years.  The  mother  out 
West  could  have  explained  that,  however. 
Miss  Underbill  wrote  out  a  check  for  one 
hundred  dollars,  and  brought  it  back  to 
the  fire.  She  handed  it  to  the  quieted 
207 


Tales  of  Destiny 

woman,  whose  eyes  opened  wide  as  she 
looked  at  it. 

"Here's  what  you're  going  to  do/'  said 
the  reporter,  blithely.  She  was  again  in 
her  element.  "  You're  going  to  take  this 
money  and  your  mother  and  the  baby 
and  go  to  the  country  to-morrow.  That 
will  do  you  all  good.  Go  to  the  house 
after  Jim  is  gone — of  course,  you  will  stay 
here  to-night  —  make  your  arrangements 
there,  and  leave  before  he  gets  home.  I'll 
take  Jim  in  hand.  I  know  a  man  who  can 
give  him  a  much  better  position  than  he 
has  had,  and  I'll  get  it  for  him  on  condition 
that  he  eats  humble  pie  for  his  treatment 
of  you.  He  will  be  writing  in  a  week  for 
you  to  come  back,  but  you  let  him  wait  a 
while.  We'll  discipline  him  a  little.  We 
will  make  him  feel  that  he  has  treated 
you  abominably,  for  he  has,  and  that  he 
is  to  blame  for  the  whole  business,  which 
he  is  not,  really.  But  that  is  the  only 
plan  by  which  you  can  get  along  with  him 
afterwards." 

Mrs.  Williams  smiled  wanly  and  nodded. 
The  food,  the  wine,  and  the  swift  untan- 
208 


Miss   Underbill's  Lesson 

gling  of  all  her  troubled  skein  put  new 
life  into  her.  "I  guess  that's  right,"  she 
murmured. 

"  And  so  it's  all  settled/'  said  her  hostess, 
gently.  "Now  you  go  into  my  room  and 
sleep.  You'll  find  everything  there  you 
need.  The  bath-room  opens  from  it.  Take 
a  good  hot  bath  before  you  go  to  bed  and 
you  will  sleep  like  a  baby.  I  will  forage 
round  and  make  you  some  sandwiches. 
Those  biscuits,"  she  added,  looking  at 
the  empty  plate,  "are  only  an  apology  for 
food." 

When  Miss  Underbill  entered  the  city 
room  of  The  Searchlight  the  next  morning, 
Brandon  greeted  her  with  self  -  satisfied 
cheerfulness. 

"Glory  enough  for  us  all, '  "  he  quoted, 
jovially,  "and  you're  to  get  a  check,  too. 
You're  in  luck  all  around,  for  I've  another 
big  story  for  you." 

"Not   the   same   kind,    if   you   please," 

said    Miss    Underbill,    with    deliberation. 

"  Mrs.  Williams  came  to  see  me  last  night," 

she  went  on,  "and  told  me  very  candidly 

>*  209 


Tales    of  Destiny 

what  she  thought  of  me.  It  was  not  pleas 
ant.  It  never  is,  to  get  a  blow  at  your  self- 
decency.  But  it  made  me  do  some  think 
ing,  and  I  have  resolved  that  in  future, 
when  you  have  such  work,  you'll  have  to 
give  it  to  some  one  else.  I'd  rather  do 
even  the  'teary  tales." 

She  smiled  grimly  at  the  expression  of 
utter  astonishment  on  Brandon's  face. 
It  appealed  to  her  sense  of  humor.  He 
gazed  at  her  open-mouthed,  without  speak 
ing. 

"So  you,  too,  thought  I  hadn't  a  re 
deeming  point?"  she  went  on  more  lightly. 
"  Well,  I  don't  blame  you.  But  I  have 
several,  and  one  of  them  is  a  suddenly 
aroused  and  imperiously  active  conscience. 
I  shall  work  along  new  lines.  My  space- 
bills  may  not  be  as  large,  but  I  am  quite 
sure  I  shall  be  better  company  for  my 
self.  And,"  she  added,  inwardly,  "for 
my  mother." 


The  Story  of  a  Failure 


The  Story  of  a  Failure 


saw  him  for  the  first 
time  at  a  students'  ball  in 
the  Quartier,  and  it  is  very 
probable  that  he  interested 
her  then  as  an  embodied 
reflection  of  her  own  gloom.  She  had 
been  in  Paris  but  a  few  weeks,  and  was 
desperately  homesick — so  much  so  that 
this,  her  first  ball,  merely  deepened  the 
bitterness  of  existence.  Already  her  New 
England  soul  had  recoiled  from  the  vul 
garity  and  license  which  wrere  substitutes 
for  the  innocently  joyous  abandon  she 
had  expected.  Young  men  with  flushed 
faces  and  unpleasantly  glittering  eyes 
whizzed  unsteadily  past  her  trying  to 
guide  the  steps  of  dishevelled  partners 
sadly  in  need  of  such  help.  The  big  room 
213 


Tales  of  Destiny 

was  close  and  hot.  The  shrill  voices  of 
women  mingled  with  the  piercing  wails 
of  the  violins,  and  both  beat  unpleasantly 
against  her  tired  ear-drums.  She  crept 
into  a  corner  occupied  by  a  couple  too  ab 
sorbed  in  primitive  love-making  to  notice 
her,  and  her  eyes  looked  out  wearily  over 
the  gaudily  dressed  figures  of  the  dancers. 

This,  then,  was  a  foretaste  of  her  en 
vironment  in  Paris.  These  were  the  people 
she  had  come  to  live  among.  In  the  studio 
they  were  not  so  bad.  Some  of  them  were 
enthusiastic  and  clever.  But  they  had 
in  them  the  temperaments  which  made 
this  kind  of  thing  enjoyable.  The  young 
men  who  worked  hardest  seemed  to  throw 
themselves  into  the  whirl  with  peculiar 
zest,  and  were  dancing  with  the  girls  who 
demanded  least  restraint  and  whose  com 
ments  on  their  escorts  and  one  another  were 
most  stimulating.  Miss  Huested  heard 
several  of  these  remarks,  and  her  sallow 
cheeks  burned.  She  was  very  new  to 
Paris. 

It  was  at  that  moment  she  caught  sight 
of  him.  He  was  lounging  against  the 
214 


The   Story   of  a  Failure 

wall  in  an  opposite  corner  of  the  room, 
looking  very  much  as  she  felt.  A  wave  of 
fellow-feeling  rolled  over  her  as  she  ob 
served  his  depressed  expression,  his  ill- 
fitting  clothes,  and  his  evident  isolation. 
He  was  so  tall  that  she  could  see  his  head 
above  most  of  the  dancers,  and  get  an  oc 
casional  glimpse  of  his  broad  shoulders  as 
the  lines  parted.  She  decided  that  he  had 
a  nice  face.  It  was  not  strikingly  hand 
some,  but  his  complexion  was  clear  and 
his  eyes  were  large  and,  she  thought,  gray. 
She  speculated  about  him  idly  for  a  few 
moments,  until  he  strolled  away  and  ap 
parently  sat  down  somewhere,  for  she  lost 
him  in  the  crowd. 

She  herself  remained  persistently  where 
she  was,  declining  primly  several  good- 
natured  invitations  to  join  the  dancers. 
She  would  leave,  she  decided,  as  soon  as 
she  could  capture  the  girl  acquaintance 
who  had  brought  her  there  and  get  minute 
directions  about  the  way  back  to  her  lodg 
ings.  She  was  straining  her  eyes  in  search 
of  this  one  familiar  face  when  the  crowd 
gathered  suddenly  at  the  other  end  of  the 
215 


Tales    of  Destiny 

room,  caught  up  something,  surged  back 
with  it,  and  deposited  it  at  her  feet.  It 
was  the  youth  with  the  nice  face.  He 
picked  himself  up  ruefully  but  good-nat 
uredly  as  the  human  wave  receded  and 
left  him  stranded  there.  She  smiled  at 
him  irresistibly,  and  he  promptly  took  a 
seat  by  her  side  in  response  to  that  mute 
invitation. 

" I  hope  you  don't  mind,"  he  said.  "  It's 
merely  one  of  their  cunning  little  ways. 
They  don't  like,  it  seems,  to  have  a  fellow 
stand  and  look  at  them,  so  they  gave  me 
this  gentle  hint."  He  rubbed  his  knee 
and  smiled  as  he  spoke.  His  teeth,  Miss 
Huested  noticed,  were  white  and  even, 
and  his  eyes  were  brown,  not  gray. 

"You  looked  as  out  of  place  as  I  felt," 
she  said,  cheerfully.  "  I'm  afraid  we  are 
both  failures  as  contributors  to  this  gay- 
ety." 

"I  don't  care  for  it,"  he  said,  frankly. 
"And  I'm  awfully  glad,"  he  added,  with  a 
little  diffidence,  "that  you  don't,  either. 
It's  such  cheap  hilarity,  and  they'll  have 
such  bad  heads  to-morrow."  He  laughed. 
216 


The  Story   of  a  Failure 

"However,"  he  went  on,  "  I'm  not  a  theo 
logical  student,  as  you  may  think,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  favor  you  with  a  sermon 
at  the  expense  of  our  'fellow  artists'  here. 
I'd  like,  though,  to  stay  and  talk  a  few 
moments,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Miss  Huested's  heart  warmed  to  him. 
He  was  a  nice  boy,  she  reflected — thirty-one 
or  two,  perhaps,  but  what  was  that  to  her 
in  view  of  her  mature  age  of  thirty-three? 
She  assumed  the  motherly  attitude  she 
felt  the  occasion  demanded,  but  it  soon 
dropped  from  her  unconsciously  as  they 
talked  art  and  artists  and  Paris.  His 
native  State  was  Iowa,  he  told  her.  Hers 
was  Maine — near  neighbors  to  lonely  souls 
in  France.  They  told  each  other  the  sim 
ple  story  of  their  lives  with  artless  candor. 
His  came  first,  of  course.  He  had  been 
in  Paris  a  little  more  than  a  month,  and, 
like  herself,  had  not  yet  learned  French. 
They  laughed  together  over  some  of  the 
embarrassing  predicaments  in  which  this 
lack  had  placed  them.  He  was  alone  in 
the  world,  she  learned,  with  no  near  rela 
tives.  He  had  worked  as  a  book-keeper 
217 


Tales   of  Destiny 

in  Sioux  City  until  he  had  saved  enough 
money  to  make  possible  the  realization  of 
the  dream  of  his  life,  which  was  to  come 
to  Paris  and  study  Art.  They  both  cap 
italized  the  word  whenever  it  occurred  in 
the  conversation,  and  Miss  Huested,  in 
addition,  spoke  it  in  a  hushed  voice.  His 
health  had  not  been  very  good,  and  desk- 
work  did  not  benefit  it.  He  thought  he 
had  talent,  and  his  friends  thought  so  too, 
so  here  he  was — this  last  with  his  ingenu 
ous  boyish  smile. 

He  forgot  to  mention  in  what  studio  he 
was  studying,  and  she  did  not  ask.  She 
told  him,  however,  she  was  at  the  Colarossi ; 
her  work  so  far  consisted  of  simple  an 
atomical  studies.  Her  masters  had  ac 
cused  her  of  draping  her  figures  heavily 
to  hide  bad  modelling.  Yes ;  she,  too,  was 
alone  in  Paris,  and  almost  alone  in  the 
world.  Her  only  relative  was  an  aunt 
who  had  sent  her  abroad,  full  of  touching 
faith  in  her  abilities.  She  was  very  happy 
in  her  work.  But  what  did  he  think  of 
Lemaire  as  a  master?  Was  it  not  true 
that  his  strong  distaste  for  the  merely 
218 


The   Story   of  a   Failure 

beautiful  was  making  him  the  apostle  of 
the  grotesque? 

They  babbled  on,  the  atmosphere  of  the 
studios  closing  in  around  them.  Emily 
Huested's  pale  face  grew  animated,  and 
her  light-blue  eyes  sparkled.  She  looked 
very  attractive  to  the  lonely  young  man 
who  had  found  in  her  his  first  friend  in 
France.  A  sudden  sense  of  intimacy  grew 
up  between  them;  they  felt  as  if  they  had 
known  each  other  for  years. 

He  was  mentioning  to  her  the  faults  of 
the  great  canvases  in  the  spring  Salon 
when  a  sudden  commotion  in  front  of  them 
checked  his  words.  A  red-faced,  angry  girl, 
with  crisply  curled  black  hair  and  wear 
ing  a  cheap  yellow  evening  -  gown,  was 
pushing  her  wray  towards  them  through 
the  crowd,  unceremoniously  sweeping  aside 
with  her  elbows  the  dancers  who  impeded 
her  progress.  She  stopped  before  Emily 
Huested. 

"Come  along,"  she  said,  shortly.  "I'm 
going  home." 

Miss  Huested  laughed.  It  seemed  easy 
to  laugh  now. 

219 


Tales   of  Destiny 

"You  don't  mean  that  you've  had  an 
other  quarrel  with  Ralph?"  she  asked, 
teasingly. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  the  other,  "and  it's 
final,  too.  I'm  going;  come  along." 

Miss  Huested  rose  with  a  little  sigh. 
Edith  Clark's  quarrels  were  always  "  final," 
and  endured  with  great  bitterness  until  the 
morning  after  their  occurrence.  She  felt 
strangely  loath  to  leave  the  ball,  but  she 
went  with  apparent  willingness,  signalling 
an  emphatic  negative  when  the  young 
man's  eloquent  eyes  asked  the  privilege 
of  escort. 

The  two  girls  summoned  a  cab  and 
rode  in  silence  through  the  brilliantly 
lighted  streets.  Miss  Huested  was  lost  in 
a  pleasant  reverie.  Her  companion  hud 
dled  miserably  in  her  corner,  the  fierce 
fire  of  her  wrath  already  almost  quenched 
by  a  gentle  and  refreshing  rain  of  tears. 

"Sorry  to  take  you  away  from  your 
young  man,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  Where'd 
you  pick  him  up?" 

Miss  Clark  was  from  Nevada,  and  her 
conversation  was  not  always  strictly  ele- 
220 


The   Story   of  a  Failure 

gant.  But  she  was  pre-eminently  good- 
natured  when  her  anger  had  not  been 
roused,  and  she  had  a  happy-go-lucky 
attitude  towards  life  that  won  popularity 
in  the  Quartier.  She  had  singled  Emily 
Huested  out  for  notice  because  the  girl 
was  alone,  and  her  natural  kindness  made 
her  pity  the  retiring  stranger.  Miss  Hue 
sted  did  not  like  her,  but  she  appreciated 
her  good  qualities  and  was  grateful  for 
her  off-hand  friendliness. 

"He's  an  American,"  she  answered. 
"I  don't  know  his  name  nor  where  he 
studies ;  but  he  is  from  Iowa,  and  he  seems 
very  nice.  I'm  rather  sorry  we  left  so 
abruptly,  for  I'd  like  to  know  who  he  is." 

"Find  out  easily  enough,"  snapped 
Miss  Clark,  crossly.  She,  too,  was  now 
sorry  they  had  left  so  abruptly.  She 
buried  her  dark  head  in  the  musty  corner 
of  the  cab  and  gave  herself  up  to  gloomy 
reflection  until  they  reached  the  grimy 
building  on  the  Quai  Voltaire  in  which 
each  of  the  girls  had  a  small  room. 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Clark's  cheery 
assurance,  it  was  not  easy  to  "find  out" 
221 


Tales   of  Destiny 

the  identity  of  the  young  American.  It 
should  have  been,  but,  though  that  young 
woman  herself  took  some  pains  to  get  the 
information — moved,  no  doubt,  by  slight 
compunctions  of  conscience — Paris  seemed 
to  have  swallowed  at  a  gulp  the  shy  Amer 
ican  youth  with  the  brown  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  Western  girl,  care 
lessly,  in  discussing  her  failure  with  her 
protegee.  "He  would  have  suited  you  to 
a  dot  —  that  man.  You  two  were  made 
for  each  other — that  is,  for  your  kind  of 
companionship,  which  is  to  sit  on  chairs 
and  talk  color  and  technique,  and  make 
people  feel  like  shaking  you  because  nei 
ther  of  you  would  ever  dream  that  there 
was  love  in  the  world." 

Miss  Clark  giggled  cheerfully  over  this 
conception  of  the  attitude  of  the  happy 
pair;  she  had  been  reconciled  with  her 
Ralph  in  a  touching  scene,  and  there  was 
nothing  but  love  in  her  little  world  for  the 
time  being. 

The  other  woman  flushed  angrily.  She 
resented  the  jibe;  but  deep  in  her  heart  lay 
a  regret,  stronger  than  she  would  have 
222 


The   Story   of  a   Failure 

admitted,  over  the  complete  disappearance 
of  the  young  man  she  had  liked  so  much. 
She  found  no  one  else  who  interested  her, 
and  little  by  little  she  withdrew  into  almost 
complete  isolation,  working  hard,  and  left 
to  herself  by  the  students  whose  sympathies 
were  no  longer  stirred  as  her  newness  and 
strangeness  among  them  wore  off.  She 
toiled  indefatigably,  but  results  of  her 
work  were  long  in  appearing.  The  masters 
ignored  her  for  weeks,  then  approached 
her,  glanced  at  her  studies,  and  looked 
worried.  There  was  something  wrong. 
She  had  no  sense  of  proportion.  Her 
work  was  laborious,  painstaking  —  and 
wholly  out  of  drawing.  Students  whose 
frivolity  and  careless  morals  she  despised 
were  sweeping  ahead,  making  gratifying 
progress,  while  she  scarcely  seemed  to 
have  gone  on  at  all. 

It  was  discouraging,  but  Miss  Huested 
continued  to  work,  cheerfully  at  first, 
then  bravely,  then  stolidly,  and  at  the  last 
recklessly.  Whatever  the  mood,  the  result 
was  always  the  same  —  always  bad.  It 
was  at  its  worst  when  the  cable  came  which 
223 


Tales  of  Destiny 

told  her  of  her  aunt's  death  and  of  her 
own  penniless  condition.  The  woman  who 
loved  her  so  well  had  forgotten  to  provide 
for  her,  or  had  put  off  the  matter  from  day 
to  day  with  the  optimism  of  perfect  health. 
The  accident  that  killed  her  killed  hope 
in  the  breast  of  her  niece;  but  she  toiled 
away  grimly,  for  there  seemed  nothing 
else  to  do.  It  was  useless  to  sail  for  home. 
She  had  no  home — in  her  own  land  or  any 
other.  There  was  still  a  little  money  left 
of  her  aunt's  last  generous  instalment, 
and  this  she  hoarded  tenderly,  moving 
into  a  smaller  room  high  up  among  the 
eaves,  and  eating  as  little  as  a  healthy 
normal  stomach  would  consent  to  accept. 
Conditions  might  change — who  could  tell? 
She  had  heard  of  artists  who  labored  for 
years  to  overcome  one  defect,  and  triumph 
ed  in  the  end.  Why  might  not  she  so 
triumph? 

Often,  as  the  days  and  weeks  and  months 
crawled  by,  she  thought  wistfully  of  the 
man  she  had  met  on  that  never-to-be-for 
gotten  night  of  the  ball.  Where  was  he? 
Was  he  successful?  If  he  was  conspicu- 
224 


The    Story  of  a  Failure 

ously  so,  she  would,  she  thought,  have 
heard  of  him.  Was  he,  too,  struggling 
and  being  downed  in  the  struggle?  She 
told  herself  that  he  was  not.  There  was 
too  much  character,  too  much  poise,  under 
his  boyishness  to  make  him  an  unresist 
ing  victim  of  fate.  Fate  would  have  a 
hard  fight  to  overthrow  him.  She  set 
her  lips  and  resolved  once  more  that  it 
should  have  an  equally  severe  contest 
with  her.  Then  she  worked  harder  and 
ate  less,  and  life  cut  deep  lines  of  suffer 
ing  and  privation  under  her  eyes  and 
around  her  mouth. 

Miss  Clark,  like  other  acquaintances, 
had  drifted  away  from  her  and  even  from 
the  Colarossi,  taking  a  room  with  another 
American  girl  who  was  a  recent  arrival. 
Sometimes,  at  long  intervals,  the  two 
met,  and  on  each  of  these  occasions  a  little 
twinge  of  compunction  seized  the  West 
erner,  the  New  England  woman  was  so 
obviously  succumbing  to  the  strain  on 
her.  Edith  Clark  threw  her  a  bright  smile 
and  a  few  pleasant  words,  and  later  found 
it  unusually  difficult  to  banish  from  her 
15  225 


Tales    of  Destiny 

thoughts  the  picture  of  the  other's  tired 
face.  She  decided  that  she  must  look  her 
up  and  see  if  there  was  anything  a  friend 
could  do.  Then,  soothed  by  the  resolu 
tion,  she  plunged  again  into  her  own  in 
terests  and  the  matter  dropped  from  her 
mind. 

One  day  the  great  Lemaire  came  to  Miss 
Huested's  side,  looked  gravely  at  her  can 
vas,  hesitated,  moistened  his  lips,  and 
spoke.  The  words  did  not  come  easily, 
for  he  liked  her:  so  much  that  he  felt  he 
must  tell  her  the  truth. 

"Give  it  up/'  he  said,  tersely.  "It  is 
useless." 

She  stared  at  him  with  unseeing  eyes. 
All  her  senses  seemed  to  have  concen 
trated  into  that  of  hearing.  The  voice  of 
outraged  Art  itself  seemed  beating  im 
placably  against  her  ear  -  drums  in  the 
master's  words. 

"Do  you  mean  that  there  is  no  hope?" 
she  asked,  blankly. 

"I  think  not,"  he  told  her.  He  was 
speaking  in  French,  and  softly,  that  the 
others  might  not  hear.  "It  is,  I  think,  a 
226 


The   Story   of  a  Failure 

waste  of  time  to  continue;  to  some  the 
gift  comes,  to  others  not.  Sometimes  there 
is  the  love  for  it,  and  the  longing  and 
ambition,  without  the  gift,  and  that  is 
very  sad.  It  is  so  with  you.  You  waste 
your  time  at  this.  At  something  else,  per 
haps — " 

Miss  Huested's  world  gave  way  be 
neath  her  feet.  She  felt  herself  sinking 
in  chaos. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  asked,  pitifully. 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
He  had  been  unusually  considerate,  for 
he  admired  the  pluck  of  this  American; 
but  deep  in  his  heart  lay  the  scorn  that 
genius  feels  for  failure.  He  looked  vague. 

"There  are  perhaps  occupations  in  your 
own  country/'  he  murmured,  politely. 
"You  Americans  are  so  clever  at  many 
things,  possibly  you  have  a  talent — " 

"Carefully  concealed  about  me?"  Miss 
Huested  interrupted,  with  a  little,  cheer 
less  laugh.  She  had  pulled  herself  togeth 
er,  and  now  offered  her  hand  to  the  artist 
in  one  of  the  quick,  frank  impulses  he  ad 
mired. 

227 


Tales   of  Destiny 

"  I  shall  have  to  try  to  learn  what  and 
where  it  is/'  she  added.  "If  I  find  it  I 
will  let  you  know,  for  you  have  been 
very  kind  to  me/'  Her  voice  softened.  "  I 
shall  always  remember  that/'  she  went  on. 
"  You  have  given  me  every  possible  chance. 
You  have  been  patience  itself.  You  have 
let  me  stay  on,  filling  a  place  here  which 
some  one  else  might  have  had  who  would 
do  good  work.  I  thank  you  for  it — for 
everything." 

She  took  off  her  large  apron  as  she  spoke 
and  gathered  up  her  art  materials  while 
the  Frenchman  went  to  another  easel, 
looking  miserable.  Miss  Huested  walked 
across  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  out 
into  the  narrow  street.  Her  eyes  rested 
for  a  moment  on  the  "Little  Tin  Chapel" 
opposite;  but  she  felt  no  impulse  to  enter 
it.  She  walked  on  and  on,  with  no  defi 
nite  destination  in  her  mind. 

It  was  May,  and  Paris  was  at  its  gayest 
and  most  beautiful.  She  had  been  there 
a  year,  and  she  knew  and  loved  each  of 
its  changing  charms  and  seasons.  To 
day  the  very  air  was  electrical  with  life 
228 


The   Story   of  a   Failure 

and  the  joy  of  living.  She  strolled  slowly 
past  Frenchmen  sipping  their  absinthe  at 
tables  outside  the  cafes,  past  little  ouvri&res 
pattering  cheerfully  home  from  their  day's 
work,  past  nodding,  smiling  merchants, 
barelegged  boys,  and  small  girls,  who 
laughed  with  shrill  voices  over  childish 
games.  At  home,  she  reflected,  one  sees 
always  in  one's  walks  the  tired,  overwork 
ed  men  or  women  whose  discontent  dark 
ens  the  fair  heaven  for  others.  Here  in 
Paris  every  one  was  happy,  or  seemed 
so.  There  was  no  shadow  over  this  sun 
shine.  Whatever  lay  underneath,  the  lips 
and  eyes  of  these  people  smiled,  and  it 
was  easy  to  believe  that  all  this  joy  was 
spontaneous  and  natural,  tossed  from  one 
to  the  other  as  if  life  were  a  game  and  the 
beauty  of  the  day  a  golden  ball.  She 
alone,  the  American,  was  a  discordant 
element — but  she  would  not  be.  She  drew 
herself  up,  and  exchanged  smiles  with 
the  workers  and  nods  with  the  children. 
It  was  her  last  day  here.  It  should  be  a 
pleasant  one.  She  threw  back  her  head 
and  faced  her  world  pluckily. 
229 


Tales  of  Destiny 

Her  feet  turned  towards  the  Louvre  and 
the  Luxembourg,  and  she  entered  them 
both,  visiting  the  pictures  she  loved  and 
standing  a  long  time  before  her  special 
favorites.  One  of  these  was  a  little  draw 
ing  in  the  Luxembourg — a  pencil-sketch 
of  the  face  of  a  dead  woman.  Miss  Hue- 
sted  had  spent  hours  before  it  in  the  past; 
she  sat  down  now  in  front  of  the  case  that 
held  the  precious  thing  and  gazed  at  it 
steadily  for  a  long  time.  All  the  bitter 
tragedy  of  life,  all  the  struggle,  all  the 
failure,  and  all  the  triumph  of  death  lay 
revealed  in  those  few  pencil-strokes.  The 
woman  had  lived,  suffered,  and  died — and 
the  experience  that  came  after  this  was 
indicated,  too,  in  the  rapt,  mysterious 
smile  that  softened  and  sweetened  the 
bitter  lines  cut  so  deep  by  Fate.  Miss 
Huested  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  looked, 
and  her  own  expression  changed.  A  cer 
tain  peaceful  serenity,  almost  triumph, 
settled  over  her  thin  face.  She  walked 
out  slowly  and  entered  the  Luxembourg 
garden,  smiling  at  the  children  and  the 
nurses  as  she  passed  them,  and  regarding 
230 


The   Story  of  a   Failure 

with  a  lenient  eye  the  public,  unabashed 
love-making  of  enamoured  couples  under 
the  trees.  Usually  she  looked  upon  these 
with  the  fine  contempt  of  a  reserved  New 
England  soul;  but  to-day  it  seemed  a 
fitting  accompaniment  of  the  soft  spring 
atmosphere  and  of  nature's  fresh  unfold 
ing.  She  felt  dimly  that  she  had  missed 
something  in  life  —  that  some  great  joy 
had  passed  her  by;  and  then,  with  un 
conscious  sequence,  she  thought  again 
of  the  young  American,  him  of  the  brown 
eyes  and  boyish  smile,  and  a  little  lump 
came  into  her  throat.  The  thought  of 
him  had  become  much  to  her.  Was  it 
that,  she  wondered,  which  had  kept  her 
working  and  striving  so  long  after  her 
own  intelligence  had  written  failure  against 
her  hopes?  She  might  be  frank  with 
herself  at  last — on  this  day  at  least !  Was 
it  the  longing  for  his  approval?  Even 
now  she  did  not  know. 

For  weeks  she  had  been  intensely  ner 
vous,   her  mind  full  of  morbid  thoughts, 
haunting,    persistent,    hideously    sugges 
tive.     To-day  there  was  none   of  these. 
231 


Tales  of  Destiny 

She  felt  the  delicious  peace  and  calm  of 
the  convalescent  whose  fight  with  death 
is  over.  All  her  senses  were  dulled  as 
by  an  anaesthetic.  The  birds  in  the  trees 
seemed  to  sing  softly,  the  voices  of  the 
children  came  to  her  ears  as  from  a  great 
distance,  the  murmurs  and  kisses  of  the 
couple  under  the  next  tree  sounded  like  a 
hushed  love-song.  Life's  symphony  was 
played  for  her  that  day  with  the  soft  pedal 
down.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the 
back  of  the  chair  she  was  occupying  and 
looked  up  at  the  blue  sky,  letting  her  mind 
busy  itself  with  the  sweet  trifles  around  her 
until  daylight  faded  and  night  began  to  fall 
and  early  lights  flashed  from  the  street-lamps. 
Then  she  rose  and  resumed  her  walk. 

Where  was  he?  She  wished  she  knew. 
If  she  could  meet  him  now,  and  tell  him 
the  story  of  the  day,  and  of  the  months 
which  had  led  up  to  it,  some  things  would 
be  different.  He  could  help  her — he  alone. 

She  found  herself  at  a  quiet  spot  on  the 

Seine  —  a   spot  she  had  visited  the   first 

Sunday  she  was  in  Paris,  and  which  had 

been    strangely    uppermost    in    her    mind 

232 


The  Story  of  a  Failure 

during  the  past  few  weeks.  It  was  a  silent 
and  deserted  place,  fringed  with  neglected 
grass  and  weeds,  among  which  the  water 
sucked  ominously.  A  man  sat  with  his 
back  to  her  some  distance  away.  There 
was  no  other  human  being  in  sight.  His 
elbows  were  on  his  knees  and  his  hands 
held  his  chin.  Every  line  of  his  relaxed 
figure  showed  discouragement  and  fatigue. 
Miss  Huested  hardly  glanced  at  him;  she 
gave  him  no  thought  after  an  almost  un 
conscious  reflection  that  he  was  at  a  safe 
distance.  A  moment  later  the  man  heard 
a  soft  splash  in  the  river,  and  looked  up 
indifferently  from  a  distant  light  on  which 
his  eyes  were  fixed.  Then  he  turned  and 
glanced  behind  him.  The  surface  of  the 
water  was  disturbed  at  one  point,  but  there 
was  nothing  in  sight  except  a  wharf-rat 
scurrying  to  cover.  The  man  listened  an 
instant,  heard  nothing  more,  and  with  a 
little  shiver  turned  his  attention  again  to 
the  far-off  light  that  seemed  to  hold  his 
tired  gaze. 

Two  days  later  the  concierge  of  the  build- 
233 


Tales  of  Destiny 

ing  in  which  Miss  Huested  had  her  hum 
ble  room  sought  the  latter 's  old-time  ac 
quaintance,  Miss  Clark.  What  she  told 
her  spurred  that  young  woman  into  self- 
accusation  and  energetic  action.  It  was 
unprecedented  for  the  New  -  Englander  to 
be  away  from  home  at  night,  and  an  ab 
sence  of  forty-eight  hours  without  expla 
nation  was  sufficiently  startling  to  set 
anybody  investigating.  Miss  Clark  made 
hurried  inquiries,  and  was  not  reassured 
by  the  story  she  heard  of  her  friend's  last 
day  at  the  Colarossi  and  the  interview 
with  Lemaire.  The  girl's  cheeks  were 
white  as  she  went  slowly  out  into  the  sun 
shine,  accompanied  by  the  faithful  Ralph, 
of  whose  assistance  she  had  hastened  to 
avail  herself. 

"We've  left  the  worst  for  the  last,"  she 
said,  slowly;  "but  we've  got  to  go  there. 
I  don't  want  to  do  anything  that  might 
hurt  her  if  she  is  alive;  but  if  she  is  not 
where  we  fear — we  shall  have  to  report 
the  case  and  get  help." 

They  reached  the  little,  low  building 
on  the  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  after  a  mo- 
234 


The   Story   of  a   Failure 

mentary  hesitation  entered.  There  is  a 
singular  absence  of  red-tape  in  such  a 
visit  in  Paris,  and  no  one  challenged  or 
questioned  them  as  they  stepped  from 
the  glory  of  the  May  sunshine  across  the 
threshold  and  into  the  gloom  of  the  Morgue. 
A  large  screen  confronted  them;  another 
step  brought  them  around  it  and  showed 
them  a  great  glass  case,  filling  one  side 
of  the  small  room.  Behind  it  were  two 
dead  bodies — those  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 
Their  eyes  fastened  on  the  latter  and  then 
turned,  horror  filled,  to  each  other. 

Death,  even  the  death  she  had  chosen, 
had  treated  Emily  Huested  mercifully. 
She  was  reclining,  fully  dressed,  against 
a  supporting  frame -work,  and  her  hat, 
stained  and  draggled,  hung  above  her 
head.  The  heavy  braids  of  her  hair  had 
been  loosened  by  the  water  and  hung  down 
beside  her,  dripping  grewsomely  on  the 
floor.  Her  garments  were  soaked  and 
stained  with  mud,  for  she  had  been  found 
but  a  few  hours  before;  but  her  face  was 
singularly  placid.  One  of  the  attendants, 
attracted  perhaps  by  its  delicacy  and  re- 
235 


Tales  of  Destiny 

finement,  had  washed  it  and  closed  her 
eyes.  She  seemed  asleep  as  she  lay  there, 
and  peacefully  asleep,  like  a  tired  child. 

Miss  Clark  leaned  her  head  against  the 
glass  that  separated  them  and  sobbed  hys 
terically.  Self-reproach,  violent  and  unrea 
soning,  added  its  element  to  the  horror 
of  the  moment.  Her  friend  crushed  his 
soft  hat  in  his  hands  and  stood  beside 
her,  helpless.  There  was  no  one  else  in 
the  room,  not  even  an  attendant.  The 
door  leading  to  the  street  was  open,  and 
through  it  came  a  long  strip  of  sunshine, 
the  sound  of  cracking  whips,  the  foot 
steps  of  pedestrians,  the  voices  of  cab 
men,  the  light  laughter  of  a  Frenchwoman 
passing  by. 

Miss  Clark  turned  to  go,  and  as  she  did 
so  her  eyes  fell  for  the  first  time  on  the 
other  occupant  of  the  case.  She  stared 
at  him  for  a  long  moment.  Then  she 
caught  the  arm  of  the  man  beside  her  in 
a  grip  that  hurt. 

"  I've  had  all  I  can  stand  for  one  day/' 
she  said,  huskily.  Her  sobs  had  ceased 
and  her  voice  was  full  of  awe.  "See," 
236 


The  Story  of  a  Failure 

she  added;  "it  is  her  American,  the  one 
she  met  just  once  at  the  ball,  the  one  she 
liked  so  much,  the  one  she  has  always 
wanted  to  meet  again.  And  they  never 
met — till  now/' 

She  began  to  cry  again. 

"It's  too  horrible  to  be  true,"  she  said. 
'  There's  something  ghastly  in  it.  It's 
the  kind  of  thing  that  doesn't  happen 
except  in  books  and  nightmares.  Look 
at  them,  the  two  of  them,  and  think  of  the 
last  time  we  saw  them  together — at  the 
ball,  with  all  the  lights  and  the  music — " 

He  tried  to  calm  her.  She  drew  away 
and  gazed  steadily  into  the  dead  face  of 
the  young  American  with  the  kind  eyes. 
Those  eyes  were  open,  and  their  expression 
told  that  he  had  met  grim  horrors  face 
to  face.  Everything  about  him  revealed 
suffering  and  privation.  The  thin  brown 
hair  on  his  temples  had  turned  gray,  and 
his  clothes  were  worn  and  patched.  He 
lay  with  his  face  towards  his  companion, 
and  one  stiff  hand  was  thrust  out  as  if  in 
greeting  at  this  reunion  in  the  city  where 
both  had  lost  life's  great  fight. 
237 


Tales  of  Destiny 

Miss  Clark  put  her  handkerchief  back 
into  her  pocket  and  turned  resolutely  away. 
The  hideous  irony  of  the  thing  penetrated 
even  her  shallow  soul. 

'  They  might  have  helped  or  saved  each 
other  if  they  had  met  in  time,"  she  said. 
"I  wonder — I  wonder.  But,  anyway,  this 
ending  is  too  much  for  my  nerves." 

She  turned  suddenly  to  her  companion. 

"Take  me  away  from  here,"  she  said. 
"Take  me  out  among  living  things — and 
give  me  an  absinthe1" 


In  the  Case  of  Dora  Risser 


In  the  Case  of  Dora  Risser 


you  wish  a  story  of  hu 
man  interest/'  said  Miss 
Underbill,  distinctly,  "I 
think  this  one  would  do. 
It  is  unique,  and  has  fine 
possibilities  of  pathos.  It  might  almost 
evolve  into  a  '  teary  tale." 

She  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  city  editor's 
desk  as  she  spoke,  and  regarded  that 
awe-inspiring  young  man  with  a  serene 
eye.  She  was  not  easily  impressed,  and 
she  wholly  declined  to  look  upon  him 
with  the  reverential  wonder  which  the 
other  members  of  his  staff  affected.  It 
happened,  therefore,  that  the  city  editor 
had  days  of  but  lukewarm  enthusiasm 
over  Miss  Underbill's  work,  and  this  was 
one  of  them. 

>6  241 


Tales   of  Destiny 

"Don't  see  much  in  it,"  he  said,  tersely. 
"Old  woman,  old  attic,  old  story.  We've 
done  it  too  often." 

Miss  Underhill  smiled  in  the  slightly 
superior  manner  that  invariably  got  on 
the  city  editor's  nerves. 

"Oh,  but  this  is  so  different,"  she  said. 
"  This  old  woman  —  my  discovery  —  has 
spent  twenty-nine  years  in  one  tenement- 
room  on  Forsyth  Street.  During  those 
years  she  has  never  left  that  room.  She 
is  a  cripple,  and  she  sits  in  a  chair  by 
the  window,  and  all  day  long,  with  her 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  she  looks  down 
on  the  festering  street  and  thinks.  She 
is  absolutely  alone.  If  the  neighbors  re 
member  to  bring  her  something  to  eat 
during  the  day,  she  has  it.  If  they  for 
get,  she  doesn't.  Usually,  one  of  the 
tenement  women  comes  in  at  night  and 
puts  her  to  bed.  Sometimes  they  forget 
that,  and  then  she  dozes  in  her  big  chair 
until  morning.  A  little  Jewish  society 
pays  her  rent  and  has  paid  it  for  many 
years,  but  no  one  else  except  the  tenement 
women  does  anything  for  her.  She  has 
242 


In  the   Case  of  Dora  Risser 

become  to  them  and  to  their  successors 
during  these  years  a  kind  of  legacy,  passed 
from  one  to  the  other.  She  goes  with 
the  rooms  and  the  occupants  must  look 
out  for  her." 

The  city  editor  looked  bored. 

"Can't  see  it  yet/'  he  announced, 
brusquely.  "Can't  see  more  than  a  few 
paragraphs  at  the  most." 

Miss  Underhill  passed  over  the  inter 
ruption  with  her  usual  blithe  unconcern. 

"What  I  want  to  do,"  she  continued, 
cheerfully,  "  is  to  take  the  old  woman  for  a 
drive.  I  want  to  get  her  out  of  that  ten 
ement-room — for  the  first  time  in  twenty- 
nine  years,  remember — and  show  her  the 
world.  I  want  her  to  see  the  Park  and 
the  trees  and  the  sky,  and  the  river  and 
the  boats  on  it,  and  the  elevated  trains 
and  the  tall  new  buildings;  and  I  want 
to  write  a  story  telling  what  she  thinks  of 
New  York  after  her  Rip  Van  Winkle  sleep." 

The  city  editor's  lips  relaxed  in  an  un 
willing  smile. 

"That'll  do,"  he  said,  briskly.  "Go 
ahead." 

243 


Tales   of  Destiny 

Miss  Underbill  went  ahead  with  charac 
teristic  energy.  She  had,  also  charac 
teristically,  made  all  her  arrangements 
before  she  consulted  the  city  editor,  in 
serene  assurance  that  the  story  would 
"go,"  as  she  put  it  to  herself.  She  even 
remembered  to  mention  to  the  old  woman 
her  share  in  the  programme.  A  small 
detail  like  that  Miss  Underbill  sometimes 
forgot. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  for  a  drive/' 
she  said,  cordially.  "I  want  you  to  get 
a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  to  have  a  good 
time.  Then  I'll  make  a  story  of  it." 

Old  Mrs.  Risser  looked  worried.  It  was 
a  vast  undertaking  to  her  —  this  drive, 
and  not  to  be  lightly  assumed.  She  lis 
tened  without  enthusiasm  to  Miss  Under 
bill's  rapidly  outlaid  plans  of  nurses  to 
carry  her  down  the  stairs,  quiet  horses, 
rubber-tired  wheels,  and  kindred  comforts. 
Neither  did  the  beauties  of  nature,  held 
up  to  her  imagination,  inspire  her  with 
interest.  Once  only  her  faded  old  eyes 
showed  a  gleam  of  satisfaction,  and  this 
was  when  Miss  Underbill  dwelt  on  the 
244 


In  the   Case  of  Dora  Risser 

commotion  the  proposed  drive  was  al 
ready  creating  in  the  tenement. 

"They'll  all  be  at  the  windows  to  see 
you  off,"  she  announced,  and  Mrs.  Risser 
listened  with  a  satisfied  quiver  of  her  loose 
old  lips  and  unconsciously  drew  herself 
up  in  her  chair. 

The  next  day  Miss  Underhill  drove 
down  Forsyth  Street  with  a  comfortable 
sense  of  satisfaction  in  her  breast.  She 
was  getting  a  good  story  and  she  was  at 
the  same  time  doing  a  kindly  act — a  com 
bination  not  so  frequent  as  it  should  be 
in  her  reportorial  career.  She  had  bor 
rowed  the  brougham  of  a  wealthy  friend 
for  the  occasion,  and  the  splendid  horses 
picked  their  way  through  the  filthy  street 
with  a  suggestion  of  outraged  daintiness 
in  their  knee  action.  The  coachman  held 
his  head  unusually  high.  He  did  not 
approve  of  these  slum  excursions.  Miss 
Underhill  smiled  serenely  at  the  dirty 
waifs  of  humanity  drifting  behind  and 
running  beside  the  carriage.  The  odors 
arising  from  neglected  ash -barrels  and 
decaying  refuse  offended  her  nostrils,  but 
245 


Tales  of  Destiny 

did  not  affect  her  high  spirits.  She  ran 
lightly  up  the  three  flights  of  tenement 
stairs  leading  to  Mrs.  Risser's  room  and 
tapped  gayly  on  the  door.  The  noise  of 
moans  and  lamentations  from  within  broke 
upon  her  ear,  mingled  with  another  more 
rhythmic  sound.  She  hesitated  a  moment 
and  walked  in. 

In  her  accustomed  chair  sat  Dora  Risser, 
stiff  in  the  unusual  freshness  of  a  new 
gingham  waist.  Her  hands  and  face  of 
fered  mute  but  eloquent  testimony  to  the 
efforts  of  a  trained  nurse  who  had  scoured 
them  enthusiastically  and  was  now  ener 
getically  at  work  brushing  into  smooth 
ness  the  old  woman's  gray  hair.  Big 
tears  fell  unchecked  on  the  smooth  expanse 
of  gingham  over  the  victim's  breast,  and 
great  sobs  shook  her  thin  figure.  At  in 
tervals  a  moan  burst  from  her,  mingling 
dolefully  with  the  cheerful  voices  of  two 
Salvation  Army  girls  who  stood  beside 
her  singing  a  hymn  with  great  vigor.  The 
nurse  looked  harassed  but  undaunted. 
Her  eye  brightened  a  little  as  Miss  Under 
bill  entered.  "  She's  ready," she  said,  tersely. 
246 


In  the   Case  of  Dora  Risser 

Perhaps  it  was  the  curt  professional 
tone,  or  possibly  a  sense  of  entire  help 
lessness  in  the  hands  of  others,  that  made 
Mrs.  Risser  break  into  another  anguished 
wail.  The  Salvation  Army  lassies,  ignor 
ing  both  this  interruption  and  that  of 
Miss  Underbill's  appearance,  fell  on  their 
knees  and  offered  up  a  short  prayer.  Then 
one  of  them  volunteered  a  kindly  explana 
tion  to  the  reporter,  who  stood  still,  reverent 
but  puzzled. 

"She  thinks  you  and  the  nurse  are 
going  to  take  her  to  some  home  for  old 
ladies,"  she  said,  "where  she  cannot  see 
the  tenement  people  or  have  her  own  home. 
She  wishes  to  stay  here.  She  likes  her 
home." 

Miss  Underbill  smiled  her  thanks  and 
crossed  to  the  weeping  old  woman.  Sit 
ting  down  before  her,  she  took  one  of  her 
subject's  unwilling  hands  in  hers. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Risser,"  she  said,  "I  want 
you  to  enjoy  this  ride,  so  I'm  going  to 
say  a  few  words  to  you  before  we  start. 
I  give  you  my  wrord  of  honor  that  this 
is  to  be  only  a  drive  and  that  I  will  bring 
247 


Tales   of  Destiny 

you  back  here  safely  in  three  hours  at 
the  most.  You  shall  return  and  stay 
here,  and  your  life  will  go  on  as  usual. 
I  am  glad  you  like  it.  I  do  not  intend 
to  interfere  in  it.  But  I  want  to  give  you 
one  good  time.  Are  you  satisfied?1' 

Mrs.  Risser  looked  doubtful. 

"You  sure  bring  me  back — sure?"  she 
asked. 

"I  surely  will/'  the  girl  answered. 

'Tell  her  so,  too/'  she  said,  turning  to 
the  Salvation  lassies.  They  bent  over  the 
old  woman  and  whispered  to  her  quick 
ly  for  a  few  moments.  Miss  Underbill 
caught  the  words  ''kind  lady,"  "nice 
time,"  and  "fresh  air"  in  occasional 
staccato  tones.  Dora  Risser  wiped  her 
eyes,  sniffed  drearily,  and  announced  her 
willingness  to  go.  The  men  Miss  Under 
bill  had  engaged  to  assist  the  nurse  in 
the  difficult  work  of  getting  her  patient 
down-stairs  entered  and  the  descent  began. 

The  task  was  a  formidable  one,  but  an 

unexpected    factor    made    it    less    painful 

than  Miss  Underbill  had  dared  to  expect. 

That  factor  was  the  simple  vanity  that 

248 


In  the  Case  of  Dora  Risser 

blossomed  suddenly  in  Dora  Kisser's  heart. 
On  every  landing  was  an  impressed  group 
of  tenement  women,  gazing  at  the  scene 
with  wide-eyed  awe;  and  their  interest  in 
the  episode  of  which  she  was  the  central 
figure  soothed  the  old  woman  to  serene 
unconcern  as  to  her  own  danger  or  dis 
comfort.  She  smiled  patronizingly  upon 
her  friends  and  nodded  innumerable  fare 
wells,  which  they  returned  with  the  stiff 
ness  of  unwonted  ceremony.  Miss  Under 
bill's  glowing  face  shone  radiantly  from  the 
group  as  she  directed  and  advised  in  her 
practical,  assertive  manner.  Once  on  the 
street  it  was  a  simple  matter  to  lift  the 
woman  into  the  low  carriage  and  settle 
her  comfortably  among  the  soft  pillows. 
As  she  yielded  to  their  invitation,  Miss 
Underbill  was  pained  to  observe  the  dark 
cloud  returning  to  her  brow. 

The  horses  leaped  forward  joyfully, 
spurning  the  uncongenial  soil  with  their 
proud  hoofs.  The  early  afternoon  sun 
blazed  hotly  on  the  baking  street  and  was 
thrown  back  in  waves  of  heat  from  the 
grimy  tenement  walls.  Ragged  and  dirty 
249 


Tales   of  Destiny 

children  followed  her  triumphal  progress 
with  shrieks  of  friendly  interest,  but  all 
this  escaped  Dora  Risser.  She  had  turned 
her  head  and  was  looking  up  at  the  dirty 
windows  of  her  own  little  room,  and  as 
she  looked  the  tears  welled  forth  again 
and  splashed  drearily  on  the  light  wrap 
her  new  friends  had  thrown  over  her  old 
shoulders.  Miss  Underhill  observed  them, 
but  wisely  said  nothing,  trusting  to  the 
charm  of  the  new  impressions  and  expe 
riences  awaiting  her  companion  in  the 
next  three  hours. 

The  misery  and  squalor  of  the  tenements 
dropped  behind  them  as  the  carriage  rolled 
into  wider,  cleaner  streets.  Miss  Under 
hill  drew  a  long  breath  as  it  reached  lower 
Broadway,  where  the  air,  though  heat- 
smitten  from  the  asphalt  walks,  was  at 
least  free  from  disease  -  breeding  odors. 
She  chatted  cheerfully  to  the  unrespon 
sive  figure  at  her  side,  pointing  out  the 
tall  new  buildings,  the  black  line  of  the 
elevated  road  in  the  distance,  and  the 
dark  shadow  of  moving  trains;  but  for 
these  things  Dora  Risser  had  no  heart. 
250 


In  the  Case  of  Dora  Risser 

She  cowered  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage, 
casting  furtive,  frightened  glances  out 
of  her  tear  -  dimmed  eyes  and  clutching 
the  side  of  her  seat  with  a  feverish  grip. 
Sometimes  she  whimpered  a  little  under 
her  breath. 

All  this,  Miss  Underhill  reflected  calm 
ly,  was  but  natural.  The  great  city  had 
grown  up  around  the  old  woman  as  she 
slept,  and  not  even  the  sound  of  its  heart 
throbs  found  their  way  through  the  four 
thick  walls  that  sheltered  her.  How  could 
she  be  other,  at  first,  than  nervous  and  a 
little  frightened?  Once  out  of  the  business 
centre,  away  from  the  noise  and  the  roar 
of  traffic,  and  among  quiet  streets  with 
beautiful  homes,  she  would  begin  to  look 
about.  And  when  the  soft  green  avenues 
of  the  Park  unrolled  before  her,  and  the 
gorgeous  panorama  of  the  Hudson  and 
the  Palisades  met  her  view,  the  old  woman 
would  awaken  and  rejoice,  and  on  the 
horrible  walls  of  her  beloved  room  would 
hang  for  all  time  the  pictures  of  memory 
she  brought  home  from  this  drive.  Miss 
Underhill,  pre  -  eminently  matter  -  of  -  fact 
251 


Tales   of  Destiny 

though  she  was,  felt  a  lump  in  her  throat 
as  this  occurred  to  her.  It  was  a  unique 
privilege  to  open  such  a  vista  to  a  starved 
human  soul  and  mind. 

The  sharp  click  of  the  horses'  hoofs  as 
they  struck  the  asphalt  paving  changed 
to  a  soft  rhythmic  beat  as  they  turned  into 
the  Park  at  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance. 
A  wave  of  coolness  and  freshness  rolled 
to  meet  them  as  they  entered,  and,  to  Miss 
Underbill's  suddenly  excited  fancy,  the 
great  old  trees  seemed  to  bend  and  whisper 
a  welcome  to  her  protegee  as  the  carriage 
rolled  under  their  spreading  branches. 
The  newspaper  woman's  voice  was  a 
little  hushed  as  she  pointed  out  to  the 
old  woman  the  cool,  green  vistas  opening 
at  every  side  as  they  passed  on.  The 
ripple  of  water  was  heard  in  the  distance, 
mingled  with  the  laughter  of  little  children. 
Through  the  trees  they  got  glimpses  of 
the  lake  and  the  swan -boats  and  their 
happy  freight.  Tame  squirrels  sat  by 
the  road-side  and  chattered  at  them  fear 
lessly.  Over  the  Park  brooded  the  silence 
and  green  restfulness  of  an  August  after- 
252 


In  the  Case  of  Dora  Risser 

noon  whose  intense  heat  made  humanity 
take  its  outing  lethargically. 

Old  Dora  Risser  gulped  down  a  heavy 
sob  and  lifted  her  voice  in  the  first  remark 
of  the  afternoon. 

"I  got  a  geranium/'  she  said,  "in  my 
winda."  She  was  looking  with  a  patroniz 
ing  eye  on  a  bed  of  that  flaunting  flower. 

Miss  Underbill,  encouraged  by  this  ten 
tative  advance,  showed  a  polite  interest. 

"Yes,"  the  old  woman  rambled  on. 
"It's  awful  pretty.  It's  got  red  flowers. 
Miss  Callahan  she  waters  it  for  me  most 
efery  day.  I  hope  it  ain't  dying  now." 

She  wept  afresh  at  this  sad  thought, 
and  Miss  Underbill  hurriedly  called  her 
attention  to  a  group  of  children  playing 
happily  on  the  Carousal. 

"  We  got  nice  little  children  in  our 
house,"  said  old  Dora,  still  harping  on 
the  joys  of  home.  "  Little  Josie  Eckmeyer 
iss  only  four  yearss  old,  but  she  comess 
to  me  efery  night  to  kiss  me  when  she 
goes  to  bedt." 

Her  tears  burst  forth  again,  and  the 
occupants  of  passing  carriages  looked  with 
253 


Tales  of  Destiny 

curious  interest  at  the  artless  abandon  of 
her  grief.  When  the  newspaper  woman 
spoke  it  was  a  little  more  incisively  than 
she  intended. 

"You  must  be  very  uncomfortable  in 
that  place/'  she  said.  "How  can  you 
bear  the  noise  and  the  smells  and  the  aw 
ful  heat  of  it?" 

Her  companion  looked  frightened  and 
ill-used. 

"It's  a  very  quiet  place,  our  house," 
she  said,  quickly.  "We  don't  never  haf 
such  noices  like  they  haf  across  the  street. 
Of  course  the  womans  and  the  mans  has 
little  troubles,  but  that  iss  not  my  business. 
Mr.  Rooney  he  threw  Mrs.  Rooney  out 
a  winda  last  week.  She  was  hurt  awful. 
She  showed  me  the  black  marks  on  her 
back,  and  she  had  a  arm  broken.  All  the 
mans  and  womans  has  their  troubles,"  re 
peated  Mrs.  Risser,  philosophically. 

"But  they  come  in  and  they  talk  to  me 
in  my  little  room,"  she  continued,  eagerly. 
"  They  tell  me  about  all  the  other  neighbors, 
and  they  ask  me  what  they  must  gif  the 
childrens  when  they  are  sick,  and  they 
254 


In  the  Case  of  Dora   Risser 

bring  me  little  things  what  they  cook. 
They  don't  often  forget  me  —  not  often; 
they  never  left  me  without  anything  for 
more  than  two  days.  Most  always  they 
come  in  four  or  five  times  efery  day.  Some 
times/'  here  the  old  woman's  voice  quivered 
in  reminiscent  ecstasy — "  sometimes  one  of 
the  womans  brings  me  a  glass  of  beer." 

For  some  reason  she  began  again  at 
this  point  to  weep  with  great  bitterness. 
Miss  Underhill  moved  impatiently  in  her 
seat.  This  would  be  indeed  "a  teary 
tale,"  she  reflected,  if  she  put  into  it  half 
the  tears  old  Dora  Risser  had  already 
shed.  Somehow,  this  "special"  for  The 
Searchlight  was  not  developing  quite  in 
accordance  with  her  wishes.  She  turned 
to  the  cowering  figure  at  her  side. 

"Well,"  she  said,  briskly,  "you're  go 
ing  back  to  all  those  joys  very  soon. 
But  just  this  moment  you  are  having 
an  experience  you  will  probably  never 
have  again.  Try  to  get  the  benefit  of 
it.  Breathe  deep  and  take  some  fresh  air 
into  your  lungs.  Look  about  you,  and 
see  the  grass  and  the  trees  and  the  blue 
255 


Tales  of  Destiny 

sky  overhead.  When  have  you  seen  the 
sky  before?" 

Old  Dora  drew  herself  up  with  a  little 
suggestion  of  hurt  pride  in  the  gesture. 

"  In  my  little  room,  my  little  room — " 
she  repeated  the  words,  dwelling  upon 
them  lovingly — "by  the  winda  where  my 
chair  iss.  There  I  can  see  a  big  piece  of 
sky,  'most  as  big  as  a  little  carpet.  It 
is  blue,  and  sometimes  white  clouds  go 
by  on  it.  And  sometimes  I  see  black 
clouds  there,  and  at  night  I  see  the  stars." 

The  reporter  sat  silent,  baffled.  This 
old  woman,  who  could  find  comfort  in 
clouds  and  stars  against  a  background 
of  sky  "almost  as  big  as  a  little  carpet," 
sat  unmoved  by  her  side,  looking  with 
eyes  that  saw  not  on  the  new  world  opened 
before  her.  The  carriage  turned  out  of 
the  Park  and  began  the  journey  up  River 
side  Drive.  The  coachman  let  the  lines 
relax  in  his  hands  and  the  horses  fell  into 
a  slow,  gentle  trot.  Here  they  were  at 
home.  Their  nostrils  expanded  as  they 
sniffed  the  cool  breeze  rising  from  the 
Hudson.  Below  lay  the  river,  warm  ir> 
256 


In   the   Case   of  Dora    Risser 

the  sunlight,  but  rippled  by  a  light  wind. 
On  its  blue  bosom  were  innumerable  craft 
— yachts,  row-boats,  and  the  stately  river 
steamers  whose  passengers  could  be  seen 
leaning  idly  over  the  deck  rails.  All  this 
color  gleamed  against  the  rich  background 
of  the  magnificent  Palisades  looming  pro- 
tectingly  behind.  Mrs.  Risser  gazed  upon 
it  with  a  listless  eye. 

"I  got  a  cat  at  home,  too,"  she  said, 
suddenly.  "She  catches  mice.  She 
caught  one  under  my  bedt  yesterday. 
She  catches  all  wot  she  wants.  We  don't 
haf  to  give  her  nothing  to  eat/' 

Miss  Underhill  preserved  an  eloquent 
silence.  She  saw  her  "story"  fading  to 
a  dim  outline  of  what  it  should  have  been. 
She  thought  she  saw,  too,  the  cynical 
smile  on  the  lips  of  her  arch  enemy,  the 
city  editor.  The  voice  at  her  side  babbled 
on. 

"Sometimes  it's  real  cool  in  my  room/' 
it  said.  'The  buildings  iss  so  high  the 
sun  can't  get  in,  and  I  ain't  on  that  side, 
anyhow.  And  Mrs.  Eckmeyer  she  brings 
me  a  pitcher  of  water  in  the  morning,  and 
17  257 


Tales  of  Destiny 

sometimes  I  wet  a  towel  and  put  it  on  my 
head.     It's  cool." 

Miss  Underbill  continued  silent.  A  sat 
isfactory  paragraph  for  the  "story"  had 
just  occurred  to  her.  She  rehearsed  it 
mentally. 

"  She  looked  out  over  the  expanse  of  water, 
and  tears  filled  her  dim  old  eyes,  those  eyes 
which  for  thirty  years  had  gazed  upon  noth 
ing  but  the  grimy  walls  of  the  opposite  tene 
ment  and  a  tiny  patch  of  blue  sky  which  the 
great  building  could  not  quite  shut  off. 

"When  I  was  a  girl/  she  said,  softly, 
'  my  husband  and  I  used  to  sit  on  the  river- 
bank  and  watch  the  boats  go  by.  That 
was  long  ago — but  this  makes  it  seem  yes 
terday.'  Her  lips  quivered  a  little." 

Miss  Underhill  was  conscious  of  a  sud 
den  interruption.  The  real  Dora,  not  the 
Dora  of  her  "story,"  was  sobbing  again 
at  her  side. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  whimpered. 
"  We  have  went  so  far.  Are  we  in  an 
other  city?  I  don't  feel  well.  I  think  I 
258 


In   the   Case  of  Dora  Risser 

catch  cold.  I  got  some  good  medicine  in 
my  house  wot  the  Salvation  girls  give  me. 
It  always  makes  me  well.  It  cures  any 
thing  wot  I  got." 

Miss  Underhill  addressed  the  coach 
man. 

"Drive  back/'  she  said,  curtly.  Then 
she  turned  to  old  Dora  with  her  charming 
smile.  She  had  recovered  her  good-humor 
when  the  reflection  occurred  to  her  that 
her  story  could  tell  what  Dora  Risser 
should  have  felt  during  that  drive.  No 
one  would  be  the  wiser,  and  Dora  herself, 
once  back  in  her  tenement  -  room,  would 
no  doubt  corroborate  any  recital  in  which 
she  had  played  a  touching  and  admirable 
role. 

"We're  going  home  now,"  said  the  re 
porter,  cheerfully.  "We  will  be  there  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

Mrs.  Risser  looked  doubtful  and  her 
suspicions  were  intensified  by  the  fact 
that  the  coachman  returned  by  a  differ 
ent  route,  kindly  desiring  to  give  the 
old  woman  all  possible  variety.  He,  too, 
was  more  cheerful.  The  drive  was  al- 
259 


Tales  of  Destiny 

most  over  and  Miss  Underbill's  prospective 
tip  pleasantly  in  the  foreground  of  his 
thoughts.  He  suddenly  remembered  with 
a  twinge  of  conscience  that  she  was  in 
variably  very  generous  on  these  occasions. 
Mrs.  Risser  seized  the  side  of  the  carriage 
with  a  firmer  grip,  sat  as  near  the  edge 
of  the  seat  as  she  dared,  looked  at  the 
unfamiliar  route  with  scared  eyes,  and 
contributed  another  copious  flow  of  tears 
to  the  collection  of  stains  on  the  borrowed 
shawl.  Beside  her  the  reporter,  whose 
mind  was  now  at  rest,  mentally  outlined 
telling  bits  of  her  "story." 

"  The  carriage  turned  into  the  evil-smell 
ing  tenement  street,  from  whose  refuse-cov 
ered  cobble-stones  the  heat  seemed  to  rise  in 
a  perceptible  haze.  Old  Dora  Risser  gave 
one  last  long  backward  look  at  the  world 
she  was  leaving — the  beautiful  world  that 
lay  so  near  to  and  yet  so  hideously  far  from 
that  little  tenement  -  room.  Then  her  gaze 
rested  on  the  crowded  streets,  the  half-naked 
children  playing  in  the  gutters,  the  swarm 
ing  life  of  the  tenement.  A  change  passed 
260 


In   the  Case   of  Dora   Risser 

over  her  face;  her  features  twisted  for  a 
moment,  but  with  a  mighty  effort  she  forced 
them  into  calm.  This  was  her  life :  she 
must  return  to  it,  for  He  who  put  her  there 
had  some  good  purpose  in  it.  She  seized 
the  reporter's  hand  and  kissed  it. 

' '  Good-bye,'  sJie  said.  '  Thank  you,  and 
God  bless  you.  You  have  shown  me  to-day 
a  glimpse  of  what  I  hope  awaits  me  after 
I  take  my  next — and  last — long  drive. ' ' 

'That  will  do  pretty  well  for  an  end 
ing/'  reflected  Miss  Under  hill,  comforta 
bly,  "when  I've  polished  it  up  a  bit.  Of 
course  I  must  make  her  an  educated  wom 
an  who  has  seen  better  days." 

A  movement  beside  her  aroused  her 
from  her  pleasant  reverie.  The  carriage 
had  reached  the  tenement  region,  and 
was  rolling  swiftly  through  its  swarming 
streets.  It  was  growing  late  and  the 
push-cart  men  and  peddlers  were  coming 
home  after  their  day's  work.  Some  Chi 
nese  laundrymen  had  left  their  ironing- 
boards  for  a  breath  of  air  and  were  sitting 
on  the  curb  exchanging  repartee  in  pigeon- 
261 


Tales  of  Destiny 

English  with  a  little  group  of  hoodlums. 
A  few  feet  away,  a  street  organ  was  grind 
ing  out  an  ancient  waltz,  and  several  rag 
ged  little  girls  were  dancing  to  the  music. 
A  long  gasp  of  delight  fell  on  Miss  Under 
bill's  ear.  It  came  from  the  lips  of  Dora 
Risser,  who  was  sitting  up  gazing  around 
her  with  shining  eyes.  She  craned  her 
neck  to  look  at  the  tenements  that  fell 
behind  them.  The  carriage  turned  a  cor 
ner  sharply  and  entered  another  street,  a 
shade  filthier,  more  crowded,  more  evil- 
smelling  than  the  last.  Two  drunken 
men  lurched  uncertainly  along  the  side 
walk.  Dora  Risser  sent  her  glance  wide- 
eyed  down  the  street  until  it  lit  and  rested 
on  a  scrubby  tenement  in  one  of  whose 
windows  bloomed  a  red  geranium.  She 
clutched  Miss  Underbill's  arm  with  quiv 
ering  fingers  and  uttered  a  shrill  cry. 
Her  face  was  transfigured.  The  listless, 
sick  little  old  woman  had  become  an  ec 
static  creature,  hysterical  with  joy. 

"Ach  Gott!"  she  shrieked,  "Ach  Gott!— 
there's  my  little  home.     I'm  back  again, 
I'm    back."    She    closed    her    eyes    and 
262 


0 

0 

«  5 

H   2 


:•> 


In   the   Case   of  Dora  Risser 

struggled  for  breath.  "  Ach  Gott !"  she 
gasped.  "  Gott  sei  dank  !" 

The  nurse  and  the  bearers  were  waiting, 
and  they  carried  the  happy  old  woman 
up  the  dirty  stairs.  Her  exclamations  of 
delight  and  her  beaming  face  left  no  doubt 
in  their  minds  as  to  the  success  of  Miss 
Under  hill's  experiment.  That  young  lady 
herself  lingered  for  a  confidential  last  word 
when  the  others  had  departed.  She  had 
given  the  friendly  Mrs.  Eckmeyer  money 
for  the  purchase  of  an  evening  meal, 
and  the  little  room  was  full  of  the  smell 
of  frying  meat.  Miss  Underhill  held  out 
her  hand,  which  old  Dora  Risser  did  not 
hasten  to  kiss.  She  put  her  own  into  it, 
limply. 

"Come  now,"  said  the  girl,  "say  you've 
had  a  good  time." 

The  old  woman  hesitated.  A  shiver  passed 
over  her  as  memory  brought  up  for  an  in 
stant  the  terrors  of  the  day.  Then  her  nos 
trils  caught  and  drew  in  the  mingled  odor  of 
frying  eggs,  bacon,  and  hot  coffee.  After 
all,  it  was  over  and  she  was  home.  Why 
bear  malice?  She  grinned  good-naturedly. 
263 


Tales  of  Destiny 

"Ach,  yes/'  she  said,  handsomely.  "I 
hat  a  goot  time.  Sure!" 

It  was  a  very  "teary  tale"  Miss  Under- 
hill  turned  in  to  the  city  editor.  New 
York  wept  over  it  the  following  morning. 
So  many  letters  poured  into  The  Search 
light  office  offering  the  old  woman  homes 
of  all  degrees  of  luxury  that  Miss  Under 
bill  was  forced  to  write  a  brief  supplement 
ary  article  explaining  that  Dora  Risser 
was  "permanently  and  happily  provided 
for"  through  The  Searchlight's  efforts. 

To  the  writer  of  this  simple  narrative 
she  told  the  plain,  unvarnished  facts,  and 
generously  added  the  moral  lesson  the 
episode  had  taught  her. 

"I  think  of  it,"  she  said,  "when  I  go 
to  all  these  sociological  meetings  and 
hear  people  worrying  about  relieving  the 
condition  of  the  poor.  I  sympathize  heart 
ily  with  that  work.  But  I  have  learned 
this  lesson  very  well:  that  there  are  times 
when  what  the  poor  want  more  than  they 
want  anything  else  on  earth  is  simply 
— to  be  let  alone!" 

264 


A   Collaboration 


A  Collaboration 


?HE  Author  leaned  back  com 
fortably  in  his  easy  -  chair 
and  looked  at  the  young 
man.  He  was  a  young  man 
himself,  but  a  pre-eminently 
successful  one — so  recently  successful,  too, 
that  the  fine  flavor  of  his  own  greatness 
was  still  deliciously  fresh  on  his  tongue. 
He  would  have  been  more  than  human 
had  he  remained  wholly  unspoiled  by 
the  popular  clamor  over  his  short  stories 
and  the  remarkable  sale  of  his  first  novel, 
now  in  its  three  -  hundredth  edition.  As 
it  was,  he  was  very  human,  hence  slightly 
spoiled,  but  still  young  —  so  young  that 
he  had  adopted  a  few  mannerisms  as 
fitting  accompaniments  of  acknowledged 
genius.  He  narrowed  his  eyes  now,  for 
267 


Tales   of  Destiny 

instance,  which  he  would  not  have  done 
last  year,  and  looked  at  his  caller  through 
an  effective  fringe  of  brown  lashes. 

"Yes/'  he  said,  incisively,  "I  want  a 
secretary,  but  I'm  afraid  I  require  a  little 
more  of  one  than  usual.  I  need  a  man 
who  can  answer  my  letters,  talk  to  my 
publishers,  look  after  my  manuscripts,  take 
dictation,  if  I  can  ever  learn  to  dictate" 
—  this  with  modest  insinuation  of  the 
irksomeness  of  such  restraint  —  "look  up 
all  sorts  of  things  for  me,  and — er — make 
himself  generally  useful.  That,  of  course, 
I  presume  you  are  prepared  to  do?"  he 
concluded,  interrogatively. 

The  applicant  for  this  responsible  post 
smiled  slightly  as  he  quietly  replied :  "  Quite. 
I'll  do  my  best,  and,  of  course,  if  I  don't  suit 
you  can  pack  me  off."  He  hesitated  a  mo 
ment.  ' '  I  admire  your  work  tremendously, ' ' 
he  added,  "and  I  shall  be  proud  to  have 
even  a  secretary's  small  part  in  it." 

The  Author  smiled  back  with  apprecia 
tion.     The  strong  attraction  he  had  felt 
in  this  quiet  young  man  at  the  start  was 
not  weakened  by  his  remark. 
268 


A    Collaboration 

'Then  we'll  call  it  a  bargain/'  he  said, 
cordially.  "You've  encouraged  me  to  tell 
you  what  I  consider  the  most  important 
of  your  duties.  My  secretary  must  listen 
to  my  plots!  I  cannot  write  a  line  until 
I  have  the  whole  thing  in  my  head,  and  I 
cannot  get  it  properly  shaped  in  my  head 
until  I've  talked  it  over  with  some  one  I'm 
sure  I'm  not  boring — or  at  least,"  he  added, 
quickly,  "  somebody  whose  attention  I  have 
a  right  to  expect.  As  I  talk,  my  ideas  shape 
themselves,  my  plot  develops,  my  charac 
ters  begin  to  get  their  cues,  and — voila! 
— the  story  is  ready  to  write." 

The  eyes  of  the  secretary  took  on  a 
sudden  gleam  of  interest.  They  were  som 
bre  eyes,  and  the  expression  of  his  strik 
ing  face  was  very  serious.  The  brown 
hair  over  his  temples,  too,  was  powdered 
with  white,  and  there  were  lines  in  his 
forehead  which  suggested  strong  chapters 
in  his  duodecimo  volume  of  life. 

"  I  think  I  can  promise  to  be  an  attentive 
auditor," he  remarked.  "The  terms  I  men 
tioned  in  my  reply  to  your  note  are,  I  sup 
pose,  satisfactory?" 

269 


Tales   of  Destiny 

The  Author  was  regarding  him  in  an 
absent-minded  manner. 

"Oh  yes,  yes/'  he  said,  hastily.  "I  am 
willing  to  give  you  what  you  want  if  you 
can  do  what  I  want.  I  wish/'  he  con 
tinued,  slowly,  "that  you  could  begin 
right  away.  I've  been  wasting  this  morn 
ing  trying  to  put  a  half-digested  thing 
on  paper,  and  if  you  could  stay  and  let 
me  tell  you  the  facts — " 

Mr.  Mardenredd,  who  had  risen  with 
the  idea  that  the  interview  was  over,  re 
sumed  his  chair  and  an  attentive  manner 
as  the  first  act  of  his  secretaryship.  The 
Author,  charmed  by  the  mute  eloquence 
of  this  simple  act,  slapped  him  boyishly 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Good!"  he  said,  buoyantly.  "Take 
that  big  chair  near  the  fire  and  light  a 
cigar.  I'm  willing  to  have  my  victims 
made  as  comfortable  as  possible.  One 
thing — don't  interrupt  me  when  I'm  speak 
ing,  please,  for  I  may  lose  a  point  if  you 
do.  But  when  I  stop  to  think,  if  any 
criticism  occurs  to  you,  let  me  have  it." 

He  lit  a  fresh  cigar  himself  and  leaned 
270 


A   Collaboration 

back  for  a  few  moments  collecting  his 
thoughts.  Hickory  logs  burned  brilliantly 
behind  the  brass  andirons,  the  pure  flame 
pulsing  a  rich  blue  or  green  now  and  then 
from  the  driftwood  that  had  been  flung 
upon  them. 

"Here's  the  plot,"  began  the  Author, 
briskly.  "It's  true,  too.  I  saw  some  of 
it  work  out,  and  got  more  of  it,  piecemeal, 
from  persons  who  knew  the  chief  actors. 
My  trouble  now  is  to  decide  whether  I'll 
use  it  as  it  is,  or  touch  it  up  a  bit,  or  per 
haps  a  great  deal.  Of  course  I  shall 
change  it  so  that  the  originals  will  not 
be  recognized  in  print.  The  characters 
are  a  Madame  Fleury — we'll  call  her  that; 
her  daughter — we'll  call  her  Lily;  and  a 
young  man — well,  he  can  be  The  Young 
Man.  I  shall  have  to  get  taking  names 
for  them,  but  I'm  going  to  call  the  girl 
Lily  anyhow.  Madame  Fleury  was  a 
woman  of  the  town.  Some  women  are 
born  bad,  some  achieve  badness,  and 
some  have  badness  thrust  upon  them. 
Madame  Fleury  distinctly  belonged  to 
the  third  class.  But  she  had  it  thrust 
271 


Tales  of  Destiny 

on  her  just  the  same,  and  that  is  why 
I  put  it  baldly  at  first. 

"She  was  a  handsome  woman,  com 
paratively  young,  and  rather  attractive. 
She  owned  a  big  house  in  a  large  Western 
city,  and  it  was  furnished  with  surprising 
ly  good  taste.  She  had  books,  pictures, 
tapestries,  choice  china,  plate,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  She  was  a  fine  musician 
with  a  good  voice.  You  see,  she  was  a 
remarkable  type.  In  her  native  France, 
in  the  radiant  glow  of  youth  and  virtue, 
she  must  have  been  stunning.  It  makes 
it  very  likely  that  the  key  to  her  subse 
quent  career  was  a  Russian  grand -duke 
who  figured  in  the  earliest  stories  of  her. 
Well,  her  house  was  a  gambling  one,  where 
young  fellows  ruined  themselves  at  cards. 
You  see  this  story  is  not  exactly  mrginibus 
puerisque." 

The  secretary  inclined  his  head  slight 
ly  without  committing  himself  to  any  defi 
nite  view,  and  the  Author  went  on: 

"  Madame  Fleury  had  a  daughter,  who 
had  spent  her  girlhood  in  a  convent  and 
knew  absolutely  nothing  of  her  mother's 
272 


A    Collaboration 

real  character.  The  woman  had  been 
wise  enough  to  select  a  convent  in  the 
extreme  East — and  the  child  grew  to 
womanhood  there.  During  the  summers 
her  mother  took  her  to  small  watering- 
places  so  remote  from  the  usual  haunts 
there  was  not  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
that  any  one  would  recognize  her.  People 
never  did,  or  if  they  did  they  made  no  sign, 
and  all  went  well  until  the  girl  was  about 
sixteen,  when  she  suddenly  telegraphed 
that  she  was  coming  home,  to  the  city 
where  her  mother  lived,  and  which  she 
herself  had  never  been  permitted  to  visit. 
'By  the  time  this  reaches  you/  she  wired, 
'  I  shall  be  in  the  train. '  That  meant  that 
she  would  reach  '  home '  in  two  days. 

"Madame  Fleury  was  a  woman  quick 
to  think  and  act.  Nothing  could  stop 
Lily  now.  It  therefore  behooved  her  to 
be  ready  for  this  dutiful  visit.  She  went 
at  once  to  the  office  of  a  prominent  real- 
estate  man  whom  she  knew  and  told  him 
of  her  predicament.  He  helped  her  out. 
He  rented  to  her  for  one  week  a  fine  house, 
elegantly  furnished,  in  the  suburbs  of 
18  273 


Tales   of  Destiny 

the  city,  and  Madame  Fleury  spent  the 
next  two  days  getting  bric-a-brac,  books, 
pictures,  and  all  that  into  the  place  to 
give  it  an  air  of  being  occupied. 

"You  can  imagine  that  she  had  her 
hands  full,  but  she  was  equal  to  the  oc 
casion,  and  when  the  train  from  New 
York  steamed  into  the  station  Madame 
Fleury  was  there  to  greet  her  daughter. 
She  took  the  girl  to  the  house  and  suddenly 
succumbed  to  an  attack  of  grip,  so  ex 
hausting  in  its  nature  that  she  could  nei 
ther  go  out  nor  receive  guests.  Lily,  who 
loved  her  mother  ardently,  spent  the  w^eek 
in  affectionate  attendance  on  her  in  the 
sick-room,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  as  madame's 
condition  urgently  required  change  of  cli 
mate,  the  two  went  off  to  a  remote  resort 
— and  that  danger  was  over.  The  episode 
shows  the  length  to  which  she  would  go 
for  her  child. 

"One  year  later  Lily  was  graduated. 
This  meant  a  mighty  problem  for  Madame 
Fleury,  but  she  had  pondered  it  well  and 
was  ready  with  her  solution  when  the 
time  came.  She  turned  her  house  over 
274 


A    Collaboration 

to  a  manager  and  prepared  for  an  absence 
of  two  years.  Then  she  went  to  the  Eastern 
convent  and  attended  the  graduation  ex 
ercises  of  her  daughter  —  saw  her  get 
her  diploma.  Lily  was  a  beauty  by  this 
time — tall  and  slender,  and  with  the  most 
exquisitely  pure  face.  She  must  have 
looked  like  a  lily  as  she  stood  in  her  white 
gown  among  the  palms  and  ferns  banked 
on  the  stage  in  the  great  exhibition  hall. 
She  was  the  bright  star  of  the  occasion, 
for  she  had  the  valedictory  and  she  sang 
and  played  first  violin  in  the  orchestra, 
and  did  it  all  wonderfully  well;  while 
down  among  the  audience  Madame  Fleury, 
in  her  rich  but  severe  costume  of  black 
silk,  sat  and  gazed  with  her  soul  in  her 
eyes  at  this  idol  of  hers — this  one  thing 
in  her  life  that  was  clean.  She  adored 
the  girl — my  story  will  show  that  if  it 
shows  nothing  else;  but  it  must  show 
other  things  too,  and  there's  the  rub/' 

The    Author   paused    a    moment.     Per 
haps  he  expected  a  remark  from  his  auditor, 
but  that  young  man  remained  silent,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  cheery  fire.     The  Author 
275 


Tales   of  Destiny 

felt  that  he  was  thoroughly  attentive,  how 
ever,  and,  he  thought,  interested. 

"After  the  graduation  exercises,"  he 
resumed,  "  Madame  Fleury  had  a  brief 
interview  with  the  Superior  and  the  nuns 
with  whom  her  daughter  had  lived  so 
long,  and  told  them  she  intended  to  take 
her  child  abroad  for  two  years  of  travel, 
and  that  they  were  to  sail  the  following 
Saturday.  She  regarded  with  sweet,  ma 
ternal  sympathy  Lily's  parting  with  her 
classmates  and  the  nuns;  she  saw  her 
folded  in  the  arms  of  the  sisters,  and  she 
herself  kissed  some  of  Lily's  special  friends, 
because  her  instinct  told  her  the  girl  would 
be  pleased  by  that  demonstration.  She 
became  also  almost  friendly  with  their 
mothers.  She  was  in  the  convent  two 
days,  and  in  that  time  seemed,  in  a  way, 
to  wash  herself  clean.  She  had  flung 
the  past  behind  her,  for  a  time  at  least; 
she  was  on  the  edge  of  a  life  as  new  to 
her  as  to  her  daughter,  and  it  was  wrell 
that  before  plunging  into  this  unknown 
phase  of  things,  before  stepping  from 
the  shadow  of  a  declassee  into  the  sun- 
276 


A    Collaboration 

shine  of  the  respectable,  she  should  have 
the  preparation  of  those  days  in  the  cool 
silence  of  the  cloister.  Her  thoughts  dur 
ing  that  time  must  have  been  strange 
ones.  I  must  work  that  up  in  the  story." 

The  Author  lit  a  fresh  cigar.  He  won 
dered  whether  it  would  do  to  tell  the  secre 
tary  that  he  didn't  mind  if  he  made  an 
occasional  comment.  But  he  went  on. 

"  They  sailed,  and  as  this  is  not  a  chron 
icle  of  a  jeune  fille's  first  pilgrimage  abroad, 
we'll  cut  that  part  of  it  out.  They  saw 
things,  of  course,  as  they  drifted  about 
for  the  greater  part  of  two  years  in  a 
quiet  and  exceedingly  conventional  fashion. 
But  there  was  just  one  object  in  Europe 
of  which  Madame  Fleury  was  in  search 
— and  that  was  the  right  husband  for 
her  daughter.  It  was  he  she  had  come 
there  expressly  to  find,  and  every  man 
they  met  was  searched  to  his  very  soul 
by  those  worldly  eyes  that  had  seen  so 
much  of  life  and — men.  They  met  quan 
tities  of  them,  for  Lily  was  charming, 
and  the  pair  radiated  culture,  breeding, 
and  wealth.  Madame  Fleury  was  playing 
277 


Tales  of  Destiny 

her  supreme  role  on  life's  stage,  and  she 
played  it  magnificently.  I  met  them  dur 
ing  that  time,  and  not  until  years  after 
wards  did  I  have  an  inkling  of  the  truth 
about  them.  When  a  man  who  was  not 
the  right  man  seemed  to  interest  Lily 
— and  it  was  easy  for  'most  any  man  to 
interest  her,  for  she  was  full  of  romance— 
the  Fleurys  suddenly  disappeared.  It  was 
not  done  crudely,  as  you  may  imagine. 
Some  interesting  expedition  presented  it 
self,  or  a  remote  corner  of  Europe  took 
on  new  interest,  or  a  standing  invitation 
was  recalled.  Lily  suspected  nothing;  in 
stead,  she  promptly  forgot,  for  she  was 
young,  and  there  were  other  men  in  the 
new  foreground.  This  was  the  situation 
when  the  two,  after  twenty  months  of 
wandering,  found  themselves  in  the  island 
of  Rugen  and,  one  day,  in  the  presence 
of  a  new  young  man." 

The  new  secretary  straightened  him 
self  and  pulled  down  his  waistcoat.  He 
also  crossed  his  legs.  It  was  something. 
He  evidently  recognized  the  entrance  of 
The  Young  Man. 

278 


A   Collaboration 

"He  was  a  good -enough  fellow,  I  be 
lieve,"  continued  the  Author,  a  trifle  patron 
izingly — "  excellent  family,  Oxford,  Heidel 
berg,  and  all  the  world  after  that.  He 
was  handsome,  too,  I'm  told,  and  he  swept 
the  girl  off  her  feet.  He  fell  deeply  in 
love  with  Lily,  and  the  sojourn  on  the 
island  of  Rugen  was  prolonged.  The 
lovers  made  their  marvellous  discoveries 
of  beauties  in  life  hitherto  unsuspected, 
and  as  they  called  each  other's  attention 
to  these  things  Madame  Fleury  looked 
on.  The  Young  Man  was  wise  enough 
to  cultivate  her  as  well  as  her  daughter. 
But  it  was  not  necessary.  Her  motive 
was  too  utterly  unselfish.  She  decided 
that  he  would  do.  He  was  poor,  but  that 
was  rather  a  good  point.  She  had  turned 
the  searchlight  of  her  investigations  on 
his  past,  and  she  found  no  dark  corners. 
He  was  all  right.  He  was  the  man  she 
had  scoured  Europe  to  find. 

"  When  The  Young  Man  asked  Madame 

Fleury  for  Lily  she  had  a  long  talk  with 

him.     She  told  him  the  whole  story,  not 

sparing  herself  in  the  least,   and  at  the 

279 


Tales   of  Destiny 

end  she  made  him  a  proposition.  She 
asked  him  to  hear  it  through  before  he 
answered  it. 

'You  may  marry  my  daughter/  she 
said,  'on  one  condition — that  you  and 
she  never  return  to  America.  You  must 
make  your  home  here  for  the  remainder 
of  your  lives.  The  day  before  your  mar 
riage  I  will  turn  over  to  her  about  seventy 
thousand  dollars  in  stocks  and  bonds. 
The  day  after  your  marriage  I  will  sail 
for  America.  For  a  few  months  I  will 
write  to  my  daughter;  but  within  a  year 
she  will  receive  a  cable  that  I  am  dead — 
and,  so  far  as  she  shall  ever  know,  I  will 
be  dead  from  that  time  forth.  But  I  shall 
wish  to  know  how  it  is  with  her,  and  at 
intervals — perhaps  two  or  three  times  a 
year — I  would  like  you  to  write  me  of 
her.  Do  you  agree,  my  friend?' 

"The  Young  Man  agreed.  He  was 
probably  touched;  he  certainly  ought  to 
have  been  by  that  magnificent,  unself 
ish  devotion — by  the  true  mother  looming 
so  grandly  out  of  the  wreck  of  the  woman. 
He  agreed,  and  everything  was  done  as 
280 


A   Collaboration 

Madame  Fleury  had  arranged.  They  were 
married,  she  sailed  for  America,  and  the 
husband  and  wife  went  to  Spain  on  their 
honeymoon.  The  parting  from  her  mother 
was  the  only  suffering  the  daughter's 
life  had  known,  but  she  got  over  it  with 
the  sublime  selfishness  of  youth  and  love. 
Her  husband  was  with  her — what  else 
mattered?  Madame  Fleury  had,  natu 
rally,  not  quite  the  same  point  of  view. 
I  can  see  the  chance  for  good  work  on 
what  that  parting — that  final  parting — 
meant  to  her.  She  left  her  daughter  to 
her  honeymoon  among  the  jasmine  and 
the  nightingales,  and  she  returned  to 
her  old  life!  What  else  could  she  do  when 
she  had  converted  everything  she  possess 
ed  into  money  and  given  it  to  her  child? 
She  went  back,  a  broken-hearted  woman, 
a  poor  woman,  no  longer  young,  to  the 
life  she  had  learned  to  loathe — but  the 
lovers  in  Spain  were  happy." 

The    secretary's    cigar    had    gone    out. 
He  leaned  forward,  tossed  it  into  the  cheery 
flames,  and  accepted  another  courteously 
offered  by  the  Author. 
281 


Tales   of  Destiny 

"From  this  point  in  the  tale,"  resumed 
the  latter,  with  a  slight  importance,  "  Fate 
advances  on  my  character  like  the  Hel 
lenic  Nemesis.  Madame  Fleury  found 
when  she  returned  to  her  old  haunts  that, 
even  in  two  years,  she  had  been  forgotten. 
Her  one  friend  had  died,  and  others  had 
systematically  robbed  her  right  and  left. 
She  struggled  on,  making  a  brave  fight, 
but  life  and  fate  and  a  broken  heart  were 
too  much  for  her.  She  developed  an  in 
curable  disease  and  died  by  inches,  sinking 
deeper  and  deeper  into  poverty,  pain,  and 
misery.  It  took  years  to  bring  all  this 
about,  but  it  came  slowly  and  implacably, 
and  she  never  moaned.  She  had  kept 
her  bargain  to  the  letter.  Eleven  months 
after  her  return  to  America  she  had  sent 
the  promised  cable  announcing  her  death. 
Lily  had  cried  passionately  and  drooped 
for  a  few  weeks,  but  she  got  over  it,  for 
her  husband  was  still  the  lover  and  now 
her  one  stay,  with  her  mother  dead,  as 
she  thought,  thousands  of  miles  away. 
So,  when  the  years  had  brought  poverty 
and  suffering  to  Madame  Fleury,  she 
282 


A   Collaboration 

was  helpless  and  alone;  she  could  not 
appeal  to  her  only  child  even  had  she 
wished  to  in  her  sore  need.  For  The 
Young  Man  had  not  kept  his  part  of  the 
bargain  as  well  as  she  had  kept  hers. 

"  After  the  first  two  years  he  never  wrote 
her,  and  at  the  last,  added  to  her  physical 
suffering,  she  had  the  mental  agony  of 
not  knowing  whether  her  daughter,  for 
whom  she  had  sacrificed  so  much,  was 
ill  or  well,  happy  or  miserable,  alive  or 
dead. 

"One  old  negro  servant  stayed  with 
her  to  the  end.  Long  after  her  death, 
when  it  was  too  late  to  help,  I  met  this 
old  creature  and  heard  from  her  the  story 
of  those  last  days  —  and  grim  enough 
it  was  with  its  bleak  background  of  tene 
ment,  and  the  dying  woman  praying  to 
the  last  that  she  might  know  of  her  child 
before  she  went,  that  she  could  not  leave 
the  world  with  Lily  in  it,  alone  or  un 
happy.  They  had  not  enough  to  eat 
— she  and  the  old  negress.  Then  Fate 
showed  its  ingenuity  by  adding  a  final 
touch  to  the  tragedy;  for  one  day,  when 
283 


Tales  of  Destiny 

the  negress  was  out  for  a  few  moments 
(begging,  she  afterwards  told  me),  the 
pain  perhaps  was  too  great  for  endurance, 
or  possibly  there  came  a  moment  of  in 
sanity.  Anyhow,  Madame  Fleury  closed 
the  chapter  and  thrust  herself  out  of  a 
world  on  the  other  side  of  which,  all  un 
suspecting,  lived  the  child  she  loved.  The 
last  thing  she  was  ever  heard  to  say  was 
very  characteristic,  a  fitting  finale,  I 
thought,  for  it  was  this :  She  whispered  to 
the  old  negress  during  the  day,  fl  would 
do  it  all  over  again,  a  hundred  times,  if 
I  could  know  for  just  one  instant  at  the 
last  that  she  is  alive  and  happy/  And 
then  she  added,  'Of  one  thing,  thank 
God,  I  am  sure.  Wherever  she  is,  she  is 
good — my  baby,  my  white  flower,  my 
Lily.  And  if  she  is  that,  she  cannot  be 
all  unhappy.  I  am  content/' 

The  Author  stopped  again  and  lit  a 
fresh  cigar.  His  face  was  flushed,  and 
all  his  little  mannerisms  had  dropped 
from  him,  as  conventionalities  flit  in  mo 
ments  of  excitement.  He  was  in  earnest 
and  deeply  interested  in  his  story.  His 
284 


A   Collaboration 

secretary  had  bent  forward  in  his  chair 
and  was  staring  at  the  leaping  flames 
with  sombre  eyes. 

"  That  was  the  end  of  Madame  Fleury," 
resumed  the  Author,  more  quietly.  "  And, 
unfortunately,  it  is  the  end  of  the  story 
as  far  as  my  knowledge  goes.  For  I  have 
not  the  faintest  idea  what  became  of  the 
girl.  She  was  never  heard  of,  on  this 
side,  after  her  marriage.  I  dare  say  she  is 
leading  a  peaceful  existence  in  the  sunny 
content  of  some  English  home.  But  I 
can't  present  her  with  four  babies,  two 
dogs,  and  a  tea-basket,  and  end  the  story 
that  way.  It  must  have  a  fitting  climax, 
and  what  that  is  to  be  I  can't  decide. 
Several  things  have  suggested  themselves, 
but  I  don't  fancy  them." 

"How  would  this  appeal  to  you?"  said 
the  secretary.  He  went  on  slowly,  his 
gaze  still  bent  on  the  fire: 

"You  left  the  lovers  in  Spain.  They 
have  an  ideal  honeymoon  there.  But 
even  during  those  weeks  of  youth  and 
love  and  jasmine  and  nightingale  and 
tinkling  mandolin,  The  Young  Man  begins 
285 


Tales   of  Destiny 

to  remark  a  strange  restlessness  in  the 
girl  he  has  married.  He  does  not  like 
it  nor  understand  it,  but  he  tries  to  think 
it  is  the  natural  exuberance  of  the  convent 
girl,  housed  in  a  cloister  all  her  life  and 
then  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with 
a  new  and  fascinating  world.  He  has 
no  doubt  that  she  loves  him,  and  the  ex 
pressions  of  her  restlessness  are  harm 
less  enough  in  the  beginning.  He  loves 
her  enough  to  watch  her  pretty  closety, 
and  he  thinks  she  will  soon  get  used  to 
her  new  freedom  and  independence,  and 
quiet  down.  So  he  almost  enjoys  the 
energy  she  shows  in  looking  for  excite 
ment. 

"Let  him  adore  her,  and  gratify  all 
her  whims,  taking  her  from  place  to  place 
as  her  caprice  may  choose.  Before  they 
have  been  married  a  year  he  learns  that 
excitement  is  the  breath  of  life  to  her — 
that  she  must  have  new  experiences,  new 
friends,  new  sensations.  He  gets  alarmed 
as  he  realizes  that  the  fault  is  not  in  the 
girl  as  much  as  in  what  is  back  of  her — 
in  the  temperament  of  her  mother,  who 
286 


A    Collaboration 

had  only  one  redeeming  quality,  and  in 
the  temperament  of  her  unknown  father, 
who  quite  possibly  had  not  one.  He 
begins  to  feel  that  he  has  married  a  victim 
of  heredity.  Not  all  the  care  in  her  bring- 
ing-up,  not  all  the  years  in  that  quiet  con 
vent,  have  eradicated  the  scarlet  germs 
of  her  parentage.  Sometimes  he  sees  the 
devil  himself  look  out  of  the  eyes  he  loves." 

"That's  good,"  said  the  Author.     "Go 
ahead." 

"  Picture  her  gradual  reversion  to  heredi 
tary  types,"  continued  the  secretary.  "At 
first  only  mild  bohemianism,  little  parties, 
a  little  champagne.  Later  larger  parties 
and  more  champagne.  Of  course  he  does 
what  he  can,  but  he  sees  the  impotence 
of  moral  suasion  in  the  face  of  her  native 
trend.  He  discovers  that  she  deceives 
him  and  lies  to  him.  He  cannot  let  her 
go  to  these  things  alone,  but  he  sees  that 
she  and  her  friends  are  openly  bored  by 
his  presence.  If  you  want  a  few  strong 
touches  of  mental  agony  in  your  tale, 
write  of  him — tell  what  he  goes  through 
in  these  awful  nights  and  davs,  these 
287 


Tales   of  Destiny 

hideous  weeks  and  months  and  years. 
His  friends  fall  away  from  him  because 
he  will  not  fall  away  from  his  wife.  They 
think  he  is  willingly,  viciously  sharing 
this  life  which  he  loathes.  Given  all 
this,  any  one  can  see  that  the  moment 
comes  when  he  could  not,  in  self-respect, 
have  any  relations  with  her.  The  mother, 
lost  through  love,  retained  in  her  fall  the 
beauty  of  womanly  tenderness  and  noble 
sacrifice.  The  daughter  has  no  redeeming 
trait.  He  settles  money  on  her  —  what 
little  they  had  left — and  leaves  her.  Could 
he  write  of  these  things  to  her  mother? 
Here  is  a  reason  for  his  breaking  his  promise. 
"From  time  to  time  he  hears  of  her — 
always  as  the  centre  of  some  new  and 
characteristically  horrible  bit  of  devilish- 
ness.  As  her  money  goes,  and  the  pace 
begins  to  tell,  let  her  drift  from  Paris  to 
Vienna,  to  Budapest,  to  Berlin,  to  London, 
and  back  again  to  Paris,  blazing  a  trail 
of  scandal  as  she  goes.  She  has  the  one 
decent  impulse  of  dropping  his  name. 
But  he  knows  the  assumed  one  she  trails 
through  the  filth  of  Europe. 
288 


A   Collaboration 

"  Back  in  Paris  the  Lily  disports  a  year 
at  the  Jardin  de  Paris  and  later  in  the 
coarser  whirl  of  the  Moulin  Rouge.  Let 
him  see  her  there  some  night,  when  he  is 
taking  a  party  of  English  friends  through 
it  on  a  sight-seeing  expedition.  There 
can  be  an  English  girl  in  the  party — a 
sweet  woman  who  has  no  right  to  be  there 
even  on  that  innocent  little  tour  of  in 
spection.  She  is  on  his  arm,  and  he  is 
glad  to  feel  her  leaning  on  him.  A  man 
may  love  twice,  and  the  ruin  of  his  first 
may  lend  strength  to  his  second  love. 
They  stop  to  look  at  the  dancing;  one 
doesn't  want  to  look  at  it  long,  even  if  he 
is  a  man  and  hasn't  a  good  woman  with 
him.  Suddenly  something  twitches  his 
other  arm — a  hideous  thing,  all  skin  and 
bone  and  paint  and  fever,  and  cheap, 
ghastly  finery.  It  is  his  wife.  She  smirks 
at  him  like  the  lost  soul  she  is.  He  recoils 
so  that  her  brazen  shame  feels  it  and  she 
drifts  back  into  the  crowd.  The  English 
woman  recoils  from  him.  Shall  we  say 
that  she  was  in  love  with  him?  Perhaps 
she  was,  but  she  got  over  it  when  she  saw 
«9  280 


Tales   of   Destiny 

the  look  of  understanding  between  those 
two  that  told  of  a  past." 

"Um-m,"  murmured  the  Author,  doubt 
fully. 

'Two  weeks  later,  a  letter  comes  one 
morning,  badly  written,  smelling  of  cheap 
scent  and  grimy  about  the  edges.  It 
tells  him  his  wife  is  ill  at  a  given  address 
in  the  Quartier,  and  it  is  signed  with  a 
name  he  doesn't  know.  He  goes  there 
and  finds  her.  She  is  not  in  such  straits 
as  you  said  her  mother  was.  Her  woman 
friends  are  doing  what  they  can  for  her. 
The  room  is  clean  and  she  has  actual 
necessities.  It  may  be  some  comfort  to 
her,  however,  to  have  him  take  charge 
of  her.  He  gets  another  doctor  and  a 
nurse,  and  he  rents  a  room  across  the 
hall  to  be  within  reach.  He  spends  most 
of  his  time  there,  and  she  takes  it  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should.  She 
never  speaks  of  the  past,  and  an  odd  sort 
of  new  life  begins  between  them,  in  that 
little  room  where  she  lies  dying.  He 
reads  to  her  a  good  deal,  and  she  seems 
to  like  to  have  him  around.  When  other 
290 


A    Collaboration 

men  come  to  inquire  how  she  is  they  are 
sent  away,  but  when  women  come  she 
says,  'Let  them  come  in  and  learn  some 
thing  from  it  if  they  can.'  They  come, 
but  I  doubt  if  they  learn  much.  They 
have  seen  it  all  too  often  before.  He  and 
the  doctor  and  nurse  are  the  only  ones 
with  her  at  the  last,  and  it  is  just  as  well. 
"Late  one  afternoon  he  is  standing  at 
the  window  of  her  room  looking  out,  when 
the  nurse  calls  him.  He  goes  to  the  bed 
and  his  wife  motions  to  him  to  take  her 
hand.  He  sits  down  and  holds  it.  He 
knows  at  once  that  she  is  dying.  She  looks 
up  at  him  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes 
that  he  had  seen  sometimes  in  those  first 
weeks  in  Spain,  years  ago — the  expression 
they  took  on  when  she  had  hurt  him  and 
was  sorry.  He  had  never  seen  it  since 
then,  until  this  afternoon.  She  signs  to 
him  to  bend  over  her. 

'You  are  good/  she  says.  'I  am 
sorry  I  ruined  your  life  —  and  my  own. 
But  you  never  understood  me.  No  man 
could.  Only  one  person  in  the  world 
might  have  saved  me — my  mother.  If 
291 


Tales   of  Destiny 

she  had  lived,  and  been  with  me  so  I  could 
see  her  pureness  and  her  faith  in  me,  I 
think  I  should  have  lived  and  died  a  good 
woman. ' 

"Her  dying  faith  in  Madame  Fleury 
corresponds,  you  see,  to  her  mother's 
in  her.  In  all  the  horrible  lessons  of  those 
degrading  years  she  had  never  learned 
to  suspect  her  mother.  She  died  an  hour 
later." 

The  secretary  stopped  abruptly ;  he  seem 
ed  unconscious  of  the  sudden  change  of 
tense  in  his  last  sentence.  He  seemed 
also  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  his 
employer,  who  had  drawn  his  note-book 
from  his  pocket  and  wras  turning  the  leaves, 
flushing  darkly  as  he  did  so.  As  the 
other  lapsed  into  silence,  the  Author  spoke 
impulsively. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "It  was  stupid 
of  me  not  to  have  recalled  your  name. 
Life  writes  stranger  stories  than  fiction 
dares.  I  must  have  hurt  you,  but  it  was 
unconsciously,  you  know."  He  offered 
his  hand,  which  The  Young  Man  grasped 
in  silence. 

292 


A    Collaboration 

The  Author  hesitated  a  moment.  His 
lips  were  set,  but  there  was  a  softer  ex 
pression  in  his  eyes  and  he  spoke  with 
perfect  simplicity  and  feeling. 

"Of  course/'  he  said,  "I  shall  not  write 
the  story.  But  you  may  imagine  how 
deeply  I  feel  your  end  of  it  when  I  tell  you 
I  might  have  played  your  role,  only  that 
Madame  Fleury  found  me — wanting!" 


THE   END 


BY  LILIAN  BELL 


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